Overload
by broadhands
Summary: Noted xeno-zoologist and Avatar driver Dr Janelle Manitowabi gets more than she bargained for in her studies of Pandora's peak land predator. Prequel to New Steps/En Pointe/Oversway/Last of the Uniltiranyu
1. Chapter 1

"I hope you know you're fucking crazy, Dr Manitowabi," commented the link technician.

The woman he was talking to was in her early forties, the stamp of her Native American ancestors evident in her black plaited hair and the harsh lines of her face. "If I told you once, Sam, I've told you a million times to call me by my first name," said Janelle Manitowabi, rolling her eyes despairingly. "After all, we have been fucking for two months."

Sam looked furtively around the link room to see if anyone was listening to their muted conversation. "You know Grace doesn't approve of relationships between technical staff and the researchers," he hissed, blushing bright red. Sam reflected it was just as well the soft blue light in the link room, chosen by Grace Augustine for its likeness to the night-time glow of Polyphemus, did not show up red very well.

Janelle raised an affectionate hand to caress the strong line of Sam's jaw. "You are such a sweet boy," she teased softly. "And a great fuck as well," added Janelle crudely, making his face go an even brighter shade of red.

"Janelle!" he snapped. "Stop it!"

She smiled at him, her face softening to show that she was indeed an attractive woman, even if she was twelve years older than her lover. "So why am I crazy?" asked Janelle curiously.

"Look," said Sam. "I get the fascination for xeno-zoology, and your work on rehabilitating large predator species into their original habitats was outstanding." He was right – Janelle's part in successfully reintroducing the gray wolf into what was left of the Canadian wilderness was ground-breaking – until they were wiped out by a mutated canine distemper virus. "But why the hell did you choose to study thanators?"

This was not the first time that Sam had asked her this question.

"If we want to understand the ecosystem of the Pandoran rainforest," replied Janelle, not unreasonably, "We have to know everything about its peak predator."

"But you don't even take an armed escort," he objected. The statistics showed that it was an even money bet that the driver would die when her Avatar died. And hers wouldn't be the first to be killed by a thanator.

"The jarheads make so much noise any of the major predators would get us all with a serious case of dead," retorted Janelle. She sighed. Sam was getting all male and protective. Never mind that her father was one of the last of the People living by the old wilderness traditions, and had raised her by those same traditions, despite the objections of her mother that she was a girl. Janelle had been tracking and stalking game since she was a child, and well knew how to take care in the Pandoran forest. Not to mention the past three years she had spent studying the thanators. Even Grace had recognised her abilities, and had given her a pass to go out without minders.

"I don't like it," muttered Sam stubbornly.

"You don't have to, city boy," snapped Janelle. "Start up the link. The Wet will start in a day or two, and I won't be able to get out in the field for at least two weeks once the rain starts. Every minute counts."

Sam glared at her angrily, and started up link chamber seven, the soft hum of the brain activity imager entering her ears.

Janelle sighed as she slid into the chamber and pulled it shut. Her damned temper was getting in the way in yet another of her failed relationships. No doubt Sam would get tired of her flare-ups like every other man she had ever dated, and it looked like it would be sooner rather than later. She was not given any time to have any more thoughts before her awareness plunged down the tunnel of light.

Awakening in her Avatar body was not like waking from sleep at all. It was more like diving into a pool of icy cold water, every sense shockingly acute. Everything was more vivid – sight, sound, smell and taste. So much so that Janelle spent every available second linked to her Avatar, running her link time right up to the maximum allowed – and sometimes over. Grace had warned on too many occasions that she was in danger of losing herself. Not that Grace was one to follow her own rules. Just look at how much time she spent at the Omaticaya school.

It was for that reason that Janelle had started the affair with Sam, to anchor herself in her human life. Not that he wasn't a sweet boy, and fun in the sack as well.

Her gear was right by her bed, just where it should be. Janelle swung her feet onto the smooth wooden boards and speedily dressed. Unlike most of the Avatars, she eschewed boots, reasoning that they made far too much noise. If the forest was like that of her childhood, she would have worn moccasins to keep her feet warm, but here it was just too damned hot. All she wore were some shorts and a crop top for modesty – and that was only to stop the leering of the grunts. If it hadn't been for those morons, she would have been quite happy in Na'vi dress.

The compressed gas cylinder in her rifle was full, and she had a complete magazine of tranquiliser darts. That should be more than enough, thought Janelle, looking longingly at her compound bow and quiver. Something made her reach out for her weapons, an enlarged copy of what she hunted with as a girl, and sling them over her shoulder.

The concrete of the landing-field was hot under her bare feet as she made her way to Samson One Six, one of the designated choppers for the science team.

"Hey Doc!" called out the diminutive pilot. She had replaced the old pilot only two days ago when he rotated home on the _White Star_. "You ready to bounce?"

Janelle struggled to remember the pilot's name, so she took a surreptitious peek at the letters stencilled on the cockpit door. "Yes, Chacon," said the researcher. "You know the destination?"

"Call me Trudy, Doc," said the pilot. "I read the briefing notes, you know. I'll have you out to the LZ in two shakes of a thanator's tail."

Great, thought Janelle - a military pilot, all swagger and false bonhomie. No doubt she would try and blow any wildlife to smithereens . "Ok, Trudy," she said. "Let's go."

The door gunners were already on board, checking their weapons. One of them, distinctly grey-faced, told her, "You better strap in, Doc. We're in for a wild ride."

"I've had hundreds of hours in choppers," responded Janelle, frowning slightly. How bad could this be? There would be a little turbulence, no doubt, because of the approaching Wet, but nothing else, surely.

"You've never flown with El Capitan Chacon," he said. "When you barf, use the bag, and make sure you don't get any on me, otherwise I will barf too."

Two minutes later she knew why he looked so nervous. This crazy bitch wasn't just flying nap of the earth, she was doing it at treetop height – and sometimes below. Janelle could feel the tree foliage slapping and banging against the skin of the chopper.

"What the fuck are you doing, Chacon?" yelled Janelle. "You're going to kill us all."

"Check our nine at five thousand feet," was the terse reply. Janelle looked out the left door of the chopper and saw the unmistakeable sight of a Great Leonopteryx lazily following their track. "I don't want to be swatted out of the sky by Big Red, and I don't think you would enjoy it either." She paused as the left rotor lifted over a more substantial treetop, adding, "Big Red won't dive on us while we are this low. Too much chance of him missing and running into a tree. He'll be out for easier prey."

"Oh," replied Janelle disconsolately, as the Samson nosed over down into a river canyon, making her feel distinctly light-headed. The feeling was only made worse with as their crazy pilot pulled out of the dive, pulling on the g-force and driving their weight into the floor of the chopper.

The other door gunner grinned at her discomfort, yelling, "Don't say you weren't warned." Both their eyes slid across to the first gunner who was busy throwing up into a barf bag. Janelle felt her gorge start to rise, but she clamped down, refusing to lose her breakfast and her dignity.

Ninety minutes later, the Samson landed gently at the LZ for her study area. Janelle slipped quickly out of the chopper, thankful to have her two feet resting on the ground. Trudy said calmly, "I'll pick you up in eight hours, Doc. If you can't get to this LZ, just call up your location and we'll winch you out."

"Thanks, Trudy," replied Janelle more than a little shakily.

"Air Pandora aims to please all our frequent flyers," was her laconic reply.

The chopper lifted off with a mechanical roar, leaving Janelle's sensitive ears ringing, despite the earplugs she routinely wore. She wasn't surprised to see long green streaks on the bellyskin of the infernal machine. As soon as the noise faded, she extracted her earplugs and waited for the soft sounds of the forest to return, before she plunged into its depths.

It took over an hour before she found the first signs of thanator spoor. Even better, they were only an hour or two old. Silently, she followed subtle signs of its tracks. Not for the first time did she think that it was old that such a large animal left so few signs of its passage. Nonetheless, she had plenty of experience picking up thanator tracks.

She was close, really close. It was time to get off the ground and into the trees. Quickly, Janelle scaled a tree, and cautiously moved in the direction the tracks followed, along the maze of aerial root systems.

'Sky-father!' she thought. Janelle had hit the jackpot – a thanator nest. An adult female was feeding its three cubs. No-one had ever seen an occupied nest – or if they had they hadn't survived. Carefully, so carefully, she eased off the safety of her rifle, took aim, and squeezed the trigger. There was a soft 'phut' as the tranquilliser dart sank into the soft flesh behind its middle leg.

Just as well the shot was perfect. The thanator roared as it whirled around, scattering its cubs and took a titanic leap towards her position. Involuntarily her heart rose into her mouth – she was not out of reach of a thanator's deadly claws, but she need not be worried. The thanator crumpled as it landed, almost directly below Janelle's position. She slid down to the ground as the cubs came whimpering towards their dam, sniffing its unconscious body and nuzzling it, trying to wake her up.

Janelle ignored the cubs as she implanted a tracker capsule under the thanator's skin, and extracted a few cc of blood, before running a rapid scan of its body. She didn't have long – the tranquiliser only worked for a little over ten minutes. Still, she looked speculatively at the cubs. A chance like this might never happen again. Progressively, she snagged each unhappy cub, and repeated the procedure she had just carried out on their parent.

Just as she finished processing the last cub, Janelle felt a prickling between her shoulder blades. Slowly, she lowered her data tablet to the ground and unslung her rifle, taking it firmly between both hands.

Janelle stood and whirled around, to see the most terrifying sight in the Universe. An angry male thanator with one raised paw directly in front of her, claws extended. As it bellowed and swung its huge paw, her finger automatically squeezed the trigger. The rifle fired, the dart sinking into the male's throat. The claws caught in her side, flinging her several body lengths across the nest, until she smashed into a tree trunk. As she hit, there was the expensive sound of breaking high-tech equipment, but Janelle was too concerned about her skin to worry about broken gear.

The male thanator crumpled to the ground.

Groggily, Janelle got to her feet. The rifle was smashed into several pieces, and the female was already beginning to stir. She needed more time.

The magazine of the rifle was broken open, exposing all the dart rounds – every single one of them smashed. She checked the breech of the rifle. Good. There was one round up the spout. Janelle cycled the bolt, ejecting the dart and palming it. Unsteadily, favouring her injured side, she walked over to the female and plunged the dart into its belly.

Janelle stripped off her top and felt her wounds. There were definitely some cracked ribs there as well as three deep wounds from the thanator's claws. She opened her kitbag and dug out her first aid kit, spraying on some disinfectant and slapping on some liquid chitin dressings. Quickly, she inspected the rest of her kit. Damn. Her comm unit was smashed – it must have been crushed between her body and the tree. That would account for the bruises on her right side. There would be no calling for early extraction, so she would have to make the LZ at the designated pickup time.

There was only one thing left to do. Janelle inserted an implant into the male thanator, took a blood sample and ran a scan. Thank the Sky-father that she had dropped the data tablet, otherwise all this would have been for nothing. Quickly, she performed a visual scan of the nest with her data tablet, otherwise no-one would believe what she had done.

Now came the difficult part of the exercise - running away. In her experience, most thanators were extremely angry about being tranquilised, and she had no doubt that these would be two extremely pissed off parents.

There was no point in taking her broken gear. It would just slow her down, and there was plenty of her scent in the nest for the thanators to identify her and follow her trail. Thankfully, her bow was a lot sturdier than her other gear, and none of her arrows were damaged, so perhaps she had a chance of getting clear. Not that an arrow would do much to slow down a thanator, and she really didn't want to wound one – not after taking so much trouble to tag them.

She scrambled into the trees, and started to run along the aerial roots.

It quickly became evident that she would not have the endurance to reach the LZ. Her ribs shot with pain with every deep breath. Not only that – she could feel blood trickling from under the dressings. There hadn't been enough time to let them set properly. She would have to find somewhere where she could bail up, out of the reach of the thanators and any other predators that might come along. Janelle stopped to consult her data tablet, calling up a detailed map of her study area. There was a pinnacle only a click away – not only was it secure against the thanators, there was a notation that there were caves. Janelle should be able to secure her Avatar there, unlink, and return tomorrow to collect both it and her data - if she could beat both the rain and the thanators.

As she slid her tablet back into her kit bag, the roar of an angry thanator echoed through the forest. No, it was two thanators.

There was no time to waste.


	2. Chapter 2

"BOOM!"

The entire building shook with the power of the thunderclap, and even the floors vibrated with the pelting of the rain. The start of the Wet had rolled in over Hell's Gate much faster than forecast, a whole two days earlier than expected, giving the resident meteorologist a big surprise. Not that his job was an easy one, with solar flares, magnetic storms and the damn Van Allen Belt to worry about, let alone your ordinary standard weather – which was pretty well unpredictable given the lack of monitoring stations. He had been campaigning for more automated stations for months – satellite observation just didn't cut it, not for collecting real data.

Grace Augustine rushed into the link room. "Who have we got in the field?" she demanded.

"Only Dr Manitowabi," answered Sam. He looked worried. "The other three are all inside the fence."

"We better unlink them," she ordered. "Tell them to get under cover and back inside. I don't like the chance of equipment failure during this storm."

Before he could do anything, three of the four active link chambers were powering down. It seemed that their drivers had come to the same conclusion as Dr Augustine, and had sought cover in the Avatar longhouse.

"I can't raise Dr Manitowabi," said Sam, his voice full of concern. "Her comm is off the air."

Grace bit her lip. "I don't want to do a forced unlink," she admitted. "Not with what she is likely to be doing. There is way too much chance of losing her Avatar to an irritated thanator. Janelle can rub just about anyone the wrong way, let alone those monsters. How long to her scheduled pickup?"

"Three hours," answered Sam.

"Tell the pilot to pick her up at the rendezvous and fly back to site twenty-six. They won't be able to get in here until the worst of the storm has passed. She can unlink as soon as her Avatar is in the chopper."

"Ok," said Sam. He dialled up the comm channel for Samson One-Six, when there was another almighty thunder clap, shaking the building again. But this time, the lights flickered, before going out altogether. "Fuck!" he exclaimed, before sighing with relief. The UPS had cut in, keeping the link units and their control systems running. He glanced at the panel displaying the status of both Janelle and her Avatar, when what he saw chilled him to the bone. Both of them were seizing, waves of uncontrolled electrical energy crashing through the synchronised brains. He had seen this three times before – and twice the drivers had died.

"Janelle!" he yelled, leaping over the console towards link unit seven, his open hand reaching for the emergency power off. As his hand slapped the red button, there was a third almighty thunderclap, accompanied by a high voltage discharge flashing from the panel across Sam's body, leaving the stink of ozone and burnt flesh in the air.

Confusion reigned, the babble of panicked voices filling the link room until Grace yelled, "Shut the fuck up!" The silence was instant. "Call the medics, someone," she ordered in a quieter voice.

The lights were coming up as she bent over Sam's body. The poor bastard wouldn't need a medic – the discharge had blown a big hole through his chest, exposing his burnt heart. Poor bastard. Grace opened up link unit seven to check her friend. Grace swore softly, "Oh, shit." Blood was oozing out of Janelle's ears and nostrils, and she wasn't breathing.

Before she could do anything the medics arrived with the crash cart, and pushed her out of the way. You could say what you liked about the RDA, but they employed some damn good people. The medics took one glance at Sam, and instantly knew that any hope of revival there was hopeless. So they immediately started work on Janelle's body, the crump of the defibrillator sounding many times. The medics fought for over fifteen minutes, until they eventually slowed and stopped.

"It's done," said the senior medic, who was also happened to be the relieving surgeon for Hell's Gate. "I'll call time of death at 14:35. Get Sally to bring up a couple of gurneys and body bags, while I fill out the paperwork."

"Fuck," swore Grace, clenching her hands into fists.

The senior medic turned towards her to say, "Sorry, Grace. I know you were good friends with her, but we did the best we could." He sighed, adding, "I thought we got her going twice, but it was almost as though she didn't want to come back."

"Irayo, Bill," she said, reaching over to give his shoulder a squeeze with one hand, and forgetting that he did not speak Na'vi. "At least Janelle went out doing what she loved."

He nodded, agreeing, "I suppose you're right. I just hate losing another one to this bastard of a place."

Grace returned to the console as the mains power came back on, donned a headset and made the call to Samson One-Six. "Trudy, don't worry about making the rendezvous with Dr Manitowabi. She's dead. Just stay at site twenty-six until the weather clears over Hell's Gate."

She listened to the reply before answering, "No, searching for the Avatar body is too dangerous. I'm not throwing lives away over an empty shell."

* * *

Janelle looked down over the ledge from the shelter of the cave. A thanator was prowling around the base of the pinnacle, roaring in anger at the escape of its prey. She had only beat it here by less than a minute, scrambling up the rock face as though there was no tomorrow - which, of course, would have been the case if she had been any slower.

Grinning to herself and thinking that this would make a terrific story in the mess, she moved inside the cave. She wanted to make sure there were no nasties inside, before she tried to unlink. There was no way she was leaving her precious Avatar to the gentle mercies of Pandoran wildlife.

She had just finished checking the cave interior when it felt as though someone stabbed a red hot blade into her skull, and she fell to the ground, her head pulsating with agony. Janelle's last coherent thought was that this must be what a forced unlink must feel like.

Slowly, Janelle came to, her head feeling as though it had been crushed by a vice. Cautiously, she cracked open her eyes, to see a soft blue light. Good, she thought, she was safe in the link room. That meant she could arrange a flight to pick up her Avatar and retrieve her data. The pinnacle should be easy for that crazy bitch Chacon to find.

It was not until she fully opened her eyes that Janelle realised that something was wrong, very wrong. The ceiling above her was rough stone, not the smooth sleek finish of the link room. She lifted one blue hand to her face, not believing what she was seeing. "Sky-father!' murmured Janelle in shock. She was still in the cave inside her Avatar, and the soft blue light was the night-time glow of Polyphemus pouring through the mouth of the cave. There was no way this was possible. Every case she had heard of an Avatar losing consciousness had resulted in the link being broken, and the driver returning to her body – except for the ones that died.

What if she couldn't unlink?

There had been some horror stories from the early days of the Avatar program about the first candidates to link up, although the RDA denied all of them, stating they were just urban legends. Janelle gritted her teeth and forced down her rising wave of panic. Even if she was stuck in the Avatar, they could keep her real body alive for months – coma patients were kept alive for years, weren't they? It would just be a bit tricky getting IV's and catheters into the link chamber without disturbing the link. She would be fine. All she had to do was stay alive, and get back to Hell's Gate.

There was only one problem.

No-one had any idea of where she was – the pinnacle was just outside her study zone – and she had no way of communicating to anyone. Not to mention missing the rendezvous with the chopper and its crazy Hispanic pilot. She would have to hump her booty cross-country, and get to Hell's Gate under her own steam.

Perhaps if she went to sleep normally, that might unlink her from her Avatar. It was worth a try.

There was no point in trying to sleep with her heart hammering like it was. Janelle took the time to review what supplied she was carrying – her bow and ten arrows, a hunting knife, her data tablet, an implant kit with three remaining implants, five thanator blood samples, her water bottle, and some fruit chews to stave off hunger. That was it. There was nothing else in her kit bag.

At that point her stomach rumbled, reminding her that her Avatar had eaten nothing today. All too soon the fruit chews were gone, and she still felt hungry.

Her sleep was filled with wild swirling dreams, very unlike any she had dreamt before, but when she woke to the golden light of dawn entering the cave mouth, the only word she could think of to describe her situation was 'Fuck'.


	3. Chapter 3

Grace had co-opted a large proportion of the Hell's Gate maintenance and engineering staff as well as the link technicians in the hunt for what had killed both Sam and Janelle. She was determined to find a cause and prevent it from recurring, and had banned further link activity until she received a definitive report. The Avatar drivers were grumbling about the restriction, but they recognised Grace's good sense. Even the most committed driver had muttered something about it being a reasonable response.

Her newest member of staff, Dr Max Patel, was reviewing the activity logs from what Selfridge was now calling 'an unfortunate incident', when he yelled, "Aha!"

Grace rushed over to his terminal. "What is it, Max?" she asked quietly.

"I know what happened to Janelle," replied Max, who then paused dramatically, shuffling data panes around his screen. Grace was just about to pick up the rotund little scientist and shake the answer out of him, when he added, "You know that maintenance of the psionic link to the Avatar is an application of chaos theory, requiring continuous tiny adjustments of the body's electrical field to maintain the human brain in a dream-like status, normally only experienced as a transitional state between sleep and full consciousness? In effect, shocking the brain's activity into pseudo-stability around an unstable strange attractor?"

"I seem to recollect that fact," said Grace drily, who had been running the Avatar program for over five years and was well aware of the theoretical basis for the technology. She continued to refrain from striking the infuriating little man.

"Well," said Max, pointing to a graph on his display, "If you see this slight voltage drop that happened here, when the power supply switched from the mains supply to the UPS, it gave a tiny kick to the brain's electrical field, flicking it from the link state into an epileptic seizure. As you know, this is a stable state for brain electrical activity, where regular pulses of electrical activity crash through the brain, overwhelming all other activity. A normal brain has the mechanisms to suppress this undesirable pattern of electrical pulses, which is why most people normally don't have seizures. However, the stimulation of the link dream state reinforced the pulses, pushing the brain into a seizure mode and keeping it there, causing massive damage to her brain. I expect you will find the autopsy results will show she died of a cerebral haemorrhage caused by a severe seizure."

"Could anything have been done to save her?" asked Grace.

Max shook his head doubtfully. "Sam's action in trying to force a link shutdown might have saved her, but the lightning strike fused the emergency power off circuits, so that she was still in a seizure state until you opened the link unit, permanently breaking the psionic link. In effect, Janelle was just incredibly unlucky – if the voltage drop had happened half a second earlier or later in the brain stimulation cycle, the kick would have reinforced the dream state rather than flicking it into seizure mode. She probably would even have survived the lightning strike, although I don't think that was an option for Sam."

He paused while idly reviewing the data, until he forestalled Grace's next question. "There are a few things we could do to reduce the chance of this recurring. First, I'd rewire the Hell's Gate link units so they take power direct from the UPS batteries, just like we do in the mobile units. That will smooth out any voltage fluctuations, and we can use mains power to keep the batteries charged. I think we can change the coding to cancel stimulation if the supply voltage varies outside normal parameters – I think the dream state will persist for at least ten seconds for most individuals without stimulation, so as long as the fluctuation doesn't persist for any longer, the drivers won't notice a thing. If it lasts longer than that, I think it will be better to execute a forced shutdown and end the link – that way we shouldn't lose any more drivers. Finally, I think you should get the engineers to check the lightning conductor rods on this building, and make sure they are up to spec for Pandoran conditions."

"Ok," said Grace decisively. "I'll authorise work to start immediately on modifying the Hell's Gate link units. In the meantime, the drivers can use mobile links to hook up to their Avatars. How long with the code changes take?"

"Two-three weeks to develop, test and implement," said Max cautiously. "I could do it faster, but I thought you would appreciate a conservative estimate. I'd rather not fry any more brains."

Grace nodded in agreement. "Get it done," she ordered. "I'm flying up to site twenty-six as soon as the storms abate a little. In the mean time, you're in charge, Max. I'm going to put a bomb under the Chief Engineer."

As she stormed out of the link room like a vengeful Fury, Grace wondered where the hell the swarthy little man had been for the last five years. She could have done with someone this good years ago.


	4. Chapter 4

The pain in her ribs grew worse with every breath, or so it seemed.

At least the thanators hadn't been waiting at the bottom of the pinnacle for Janelle to descend and provide them with a nutritious breakfast. Thank heaven for small mercies, she managed to think between the each stabbing pain. She checked the position of the sun again to make sure she was heading in the right direction. Janelle had no intention of running around in circles – she wanted to make the best time possible to get clear of the thanators hunting range.

She had spent a quarter of an hour planning her optimal route back to Hell's Gate, until she realised the best outcome would be making directly for the Omaticaya school. Grace was there almost every day teaching her little grommets, and although it was not in the same direction as home base, she could cut at least three days journey out of her survival attempt. If, of course, she didn't collapse from starvation or get eaten by the local predators or plant life – she had almost stumbled directly into a scorpion thistle plant as it was.

Her stomach again reminded her that it would appreciate being filled with something tasty and nutritious. Unfortunately, it would have to wait, and she regretted that the Na'vi carried little energy reserves in the form of fat – unlike her human body, which had provided her with a constant struggle to maintain a healthy weight since she was fifteen, at least until she arrived at Hell's Gate. Janelle could not see how anyone could gain weight with the gloop the Hell's Gate commissary fed everyone.

She had to stop running, if only for a moment. There was a trumpet flower plant here – she could drink from that, and use it to fill her drained water bottle.

The taste of the water she drank was somewhere between lemon and lime cordial, the sweetness of the clear liquid refreshing her mouth. Janelle was careful not to take too much from any one bloom – over indulging would kill the flower, and another traveller might need this plant sometime.

After she drank her fill, she squatted with her hands on her knees, trying to ease the tightness in her legs, when there was a soft thud of something falling to her left. Janelle's head swivelled to see the delicious purple promise of an utu'mauti fruit, just lying on the ground for anyone to take. Her hand snatched the fruit from the ground without thinking, and she gorged on the delicious fruit. Someone up there must like her, but she doubted it was the Sky-father. It was a very long way from the mountains of her childhood.

As she licked her fingers clean of the sticky pulp, she reflected that the events of the last day seemed to be like a rite of passage, a replacement for the spirit journey that she had never taken. When Janelle was fifteen, she was supposed to spend the summer school holidays with her father. Janelle had let slip to her mother that she was to undertake her spirit journey alone through the wilderness, when her mother hit the roof and called Social Services. They granted an intervention order that prevented her father from ever contacting Janelle, on the grounds that he was endangering her mental and physical health by subjecting an impressionable child to obsolete patriarchal cultural practices.

Janelle had been locked up in a 'juvenile rehabilitation clinic' that had tried to 'normalise' her to the standard cultural milieu, but she had refused to cooperate with any of her so-called counsellors. Instead, she escaped and contacted a tribal lawyer, who managed to emancipate Janelle from her bitch of a mother, only for her escape to be too late. Her father had walked out into the mountains and had never been seen again.

She had never forgiven her mother.

Ever since, Janelle had tried to live according to the values her father had taught her - to walk over the earth leaving no trace of her passing, to speak the truth and always keep her word, and to honour the beliefs of her ancestors. Even now, she hoped he would proud of her.

Perhaps the Na'vi deity – Eywa – was granting her need for a spirit journey, and providing a little helping hand. But the imaginary bitch wasn't going to make it too easy for Janelle, either.

Taking a deep breath, Janelle allowed the air to trickle slowly out of her lungs. The Na'vi sense of smell was far more sensitive than the human nose. She had often used it to hunt down her quarry, and it had proven a valuable tool in keeping her alive during her study of Pandora's apex forest predator, never letting her down. Janelle had made sure that she fled downwind from the pinnacle, even though it was going to add quite a few extra clicks to her route. There was no sign of thanator scent in the air, but she had learnt from experience that thanators were the among the most cunning and persistent predators ever encountered by Man. Or Woman, for that matter.

Janelle pulled out her data tablet and called up the mapping function. While the RDA monitoring satellite coverage didn't provide anything like the accuracy of the GPS network, as long as she could pick up the signals of a couple of satellites she could localise her position to within half a click or so. Based on her knowledge of thanator hunting territories, Janelle thought she had travelled far enough to be clear, assuming that the territory approximated a circle and the nest was in the centre.

If Pandora had taught her one thing it was that assumptions could kill. She decided to travel another five clicks in her current direction before she doglegged for the school, just for safety. And then she cursed under her breath. Why the hell hadn't she activated the tracking implants? That was what they were there for. Muttering, "Stoopid, stoopid, stoopid," Janelle clicked on the icon to activate the implants, and about ten seconds later data flags flicked into existence on her map screen – four in a clump at the nest site, and one over twenty clicks away on the other side of the range. It seemed that the male thanator was hunting for prey on the upwind side of its range.

"I really am an idiot," she said, wondering if talking to herself was a sign that her sanity was slipping. Quickly, Janelle scrawled out an e-mail detailing her location and sent it to Grace. A minute later, she got a reply, but not the one she wanted – the automated reply was that her security credentials had expired, and the e-mail had been bounced back to her inbox, recommending that she place a call to the IT Service Desk to renew her access. "Fuck!" she yelled out loud. This was too much. The Hell's Gate IT department had screwed up yet again. This was the fifth time this year her access had been revoked for no reason. She almost threw the data tablet out into the forest in frustration, barely able to control her temper.

Still, there was one thing she could do to help her situation – she had the time to safely redress her wounds. There was only one problem – she had used all her first aid supplies already. Thank the Sky-father that Grace had insisted on loading the Na'vi survival database onto all the data tablets issued to Avatars. Janelle entered a query on field dressings, and sure enough – up came a number of entries on use of plants to dress wounds.

Half an hour later Janelle had gathered the required plant materials. She ground ithem up on a smooth rock, adding water to produce a resinous, jelly-like mass, and quickly peeled off the chitin dressing. Spreading the orange-looking resin with her knife while keeping the edges of the wounds together was tricky, but she seemed to do a reasonable job. As it hardened into a flexible plastic-like material, she noticed that the dressing had a mild anaesthetic effect, the hot throbbing from her wounds easing substantially. In the survival notes, Grace had commented that the capabilities of many of the local materials used for first aid far exceeded their human equivalents. It seemed she was right, and she could look forward to the wounds healing in four or five days.

Now what? The best course of action was to run the next five clicks, and try to find a place to spend the night. She had no intention of staying at ground level, and becoming a midnight snack for a pack of viperwolves.

And tomorrow? She would hunt. She needed the protein to ensure that her wounds healed properly, and she would have enough energy to make the Omaticaya school.


	5. Chapter 5

"Hey, Joe," said the young woman, swivelling around in her chair. The Hell's Gate control room was quiet, reflecting the lack of night-time activity outside the administration building.

Joe answered, "What is it, Deepta?"

"I was going through the system exception logs when I saw this afternoon we bounced an e-mail from the dead Avatar chick's account," she told him. "What should I do?"

He sighed. She had only landed a week ago, and was still feeling her way into the job. "Was it local, or remote?" he asked disinterestedly.

"Remote," she answered. "The source address is from her field data tablet."

"Ignore it," Joe advised her. "If it was local I might be worried that some grunt is trying to hack her account, but I sincerely doubt her Avatar is walking around without a driver, sending e-mails from the field. Perhaps one of the blue monkeys found her body, started playing with the shiny thing with pretty colours and accidentally clicked on the send button."

"But shouldn't we investigate it, or tell someone?" she persisted. "It might be a security breach."

Joe swivelled away from his console and lent forward in his chair. He said in a patient voice, "Look, Deepta. You're a Pandoran newbie. It's very different here from any place you worked back home. There aren't ten billion hostile hackers out there trying to break in – just a bunch of blue savages who haven't advanced beyond the Neolithic. We don't have enough time, money or people to chase down every little discrepancy we find in the system. The poor bitch got the chop yesterday, and you disabled her network account when you were asked - that's all we need to do. Just write off the data tablet as a loss in the field, and set up the automation to ignore any messages or exceptions originating from that address. Eventually, the power cells will just run down, and the problem will go away."

Deepta nodded slowly in understanding. What Joe told her seemed like good sense, even though it wasn't strictly in accordance with regs. Her late unlamented predecessor had left an absolute mountain of unfinished work which she was supposed to be tackling first, and she would never make a dent in it if she did everything by the book. "Thanks for setting me straight, Joe," she said, as she deleted the message text from the e-mail suspense account without reading it.

He replied, "You'll get to see a lot more of these in your hitch. Just be glad you never have to go outside the fence."

* * *

Janelle crept through the undergrowth, patiently stalking the hexapede, taking care to ensure she stayed low. It paused in a small clearing, lifting its head. Finally, she had a clear shot. Carefully, she nocked an arrow and took aim. Without thinking, she loosed the string, the arrow flying true and straight, burying itself deep in the hexapede's chest. A perfect shot, she thought, her aching ribs momentarily forgotten in the pleasure of the kill.

What happened a fraction of a second later shocked her rigid. Another arrow sprouted from the beast only a few inches away from her shot, just as the animal was crumpling to the ground. Janelle found herself running towards her kill with her knife in hand, snarling a warning to the unseen interloper. It was her kill, and she was determined to enforce her claim.

The hexapede was struggling in its death throes when she arrived over the corpse. Janelle knelt on its neck , and as her father had taught her, murmured in her childhood Cree, "Thank you, Sky-father, for sending my brother to sustain me. I honour his flesh, and dispatch his spirit to your care." She slid her knife into the hexapede's spiracle, seeking its heart. It shuddered once and grew still.

"Laro tspang," said a masculine voice, his tone amused.

Janelle looked up to see a male Na'vi with a rueful expression on his face. Her mind translated the words from Na'vi – a clean kill. "Srane," she replied. "Ma ohakx oe." Her words were true – her stomach was as empty as a drum, and there was no way she was going to miss this shot – not if she wanted to avoid passing out from hunger pains.

An expression of surprise crossed his face as he saw the human cast of her features – especially her eyebrows. "You are dreamwalker," he said, switching to English. "I did not know dreamwalker could stalk and hunt like Omaticaya. Even your scent was hidden from me."

She sheathed her knife, and withdrew her arrow from the kill. As she rose to her feet, she told him, "I am Janelle Manitowabi of the Cree Nation. My father taught me the skills of the hunt when I was a child."

"I See you, Zha'nelle," he replied. "I am called Tsawlontu."

Janelle tried not to giggle. He really did have a big nose, even for a Na'vi. Tsawlontu sighed despondently. It seemed that this was not an uncommon reaction from new acquaintances. She managed to squeeze out, "I See you."

"Yerik is your kill," he said after she stopped laughing, pointing his chin at the dead animal. "Yerik is more than one person can eat. I make fire, cook kill, we share fairly."

It seemed like a good deal. Janelle had no way of making fire – a grave omission for a hunter – and she was a terrible cook. Raw yerik did not sound very appetising, either. She looked down at her kill, and then slowly looked up at Tsawlontu, saying with a smile, "It is a very small yerik, I am very hungry, and your nose is very large. I am not sure that there is enough for all three of us."

Tsawlontu barked with laughter. "My nose will have to go hungry, only. Are we agreed?"

"Srane," she replied.

As it turned out, Janelle got the better of the deal. Tsawlontu laid a fire, dressed the kill, and started to cook it in short order – all things which she would have screwed up conprehensively. As he busied himself about the fire, he pointed to the orange dressing on her side. "How you get hurt?" he asked.

"Thanator," she said. When he frowned, not knowing the word, she clarified, "Palulukan."

"Why you not dead?" he asked curiously. "Lone Na'vi meets palulukan, Na'vi always dies."

"I was very lucky," was her answer. He nodded, but still looked curious, so she tried to explain the flow of events.

When she finished her brief story, he commented, "All dreamwalkers crazy. Some more crazy than others, but one who alone seeks out palulukan nest very insane."

When he put it like that, she had to admit there was something in what he said. Still, she felt obligated to explain further. "You are Omaticaya, so you must know Grace Augustine." She paused, and saw his gesture of assent. "She seeks after knowledge of plants, and talks to Omaticaya to learn more. I am like Grace, but rather than plants, I want to understand palulukan. So I track palulukan, study how they hunt, what they eat, how they stake out territory and raise cubs. If I know all about palulukan, then I understand a small part of how the forest lives."

"Ah," he said. "You seek to interpret will of Eywa, like Tsahik, but for palulukan, not Na'vi."

Janelle replied, "Not quite like Tsahik, but that is near enough."

"Still think Zha'nelle insane," said Tsawlontu.

No matter what he thought of the state of her mind, Tsawlontu was an excellent cook. Janelle was lucky to have met him.


	6. Chapter 6

It was very pleasant sitting around the fire with a friendly companion, as the sun set over the forest. It reminded Janelle very much of time she had spent with her father, many years ago. To make conversation, she asked Tsawlontu why he was alone and so far from the Omaticaya Hometree. It seemed unusual, as the Na'vi were a very communal species, much more so than humans.

Tsawlontu grimaced. "I fought with mate. She very angry over something I say. I sorry, but mate still angry, so I go on journey to give her time to calm."

"Oh," said Janelle. It seemed that the rosy picture painted by the xeno-anthropologists about Na'vi life was a little off the mark. Even in a society where people mated for life as a biological imperative it seemed there were relationship problems.

"Kalinkey good woman, but difficult to live with," he continued. "Temper like 'angitsa bull in rut season." Tsawlontu smiled, obviously recalling a previous incident. "When I return, she will be very happy, and life will be good for a time, until she gets angry again."

'This has happened before, I gather," commented Janelle wryly. All of her previous relationships suffered from a similar pattern, until her partners had enough, walked out and did not return. Perhaps there was something in mating for life.

"Srane," said Tsawlontu. "Many times. I have habit of putting foot in mouth, of speaking before I think." He shrugged. "I do not mind a little time alone. Allows me to feel the forest, to feel spirit of Eywa all about me."

"I know what you mean," added Janelle with feeling.

"You are mated?" queried Tsawlontu, as he poked at the fire with a long stick, stirring up the coals.

"Sort of," she admitted, holding out one hand, palm down, and shaking it from side to side.

"How can one be 'sort of' mated?" said Tsawlontu, a puzzled expression on his face. "One is either mated, or one is not."

"It is different for humans, for tawtute," replied Janelle. "Humans do not mate for life, although that is the ideal. Instead, the unlucky ones," she said, pointing to herself, "Go from one unsatisfactory relationship to the next, always hoping that the next mate will be the One – unless we give up."

"You do not form tsahaylu, the bond?" he asked sharply. "How can one ever know before Eywa that you have Chosen?"

"We don't," was her blunt answer.

There was at least a minute's silence while Tsawlontu mulled over her words. "I feel sorry for the tawtute, Zha'nelle, that they can never feel the love of another," he said slowly. He paused, and then asked, "This 'sort of' mate, is he dreamwalker?"

"No," she answered.

"A shame," commented Tsawlontu. "If he was dreamwalker, then you could form tsahaylu, and know before Eywa if he is your mate for life." He laughed, suggesting, "Perhaps you should search for mate amongst Na'vi."

Janelle spluttered with surprise – this curveball came right out of left-field. When she regained her equanimity, she shook her head in negation. "No, I cannot do that," she said finally. "I am supposed to leave this world in a few years, to return to Earth. I would not mate with a Na'vi and leave him alone for the rest of his life – it would not be fair, and I will not be permitted to choose to stay on this world."

Tsawlontu nodded. "You are a good person, Zha'nelle Manitowabi of the Cree Nation. It is a pity that you cannot stay and take a mate for life amongst the Na'vi." He looked slyly at her, "My brother Mìnkxetse has not found a mate. He would like you – you are good hunter, and are quite pretty, even though you are insane and do not know how to dress."

Her face flushed with embarrassment, and then she laughed. "Is his nose as big as yours?" she demanded. "I do not know that I could kiss a man with such a big nose. It would get in the way."

He laughed back. "I deserve that for teasing you," he said, grinning cheerfully. "My brother, his nose is normal size, very handsome, although he has kink in tail."

They sat in companionable silence for a while, Janelle thinking that it seemed she had stumbled into finding a friend, despite him being an alien. Or perhaps she was the alien. She didn't have many friends, and was glad to have another.

"You know what my name means," said Tsawlontu, breaking the silence. "It is not fair – your name sounds like a collection of noises without meaning."

"My name is in two different tawtute languages, but taken together it says 'Gracious One Who Sees The Spirit'," she told him diffidently. Janelle had always felt it was much too grand for her, assigning her qualities that she was entirely lacking.

He looked at her keenly. "You do not feel worthy of your name," he commented. When she nodded, he added, "For some it takes time to grow into a name. I think your time will come soon."

She didn't answer, wondering what he meant.

Tsawlontu observed her discomfort, and distracted her by starting to put out the fire. "What are you doing?" she asked.

"Getting dark," he said. "Fire will attract nantang pack. Two are not enough to keep them away, so we must sleep in tree. It will be disappointing to escape palulukan only to be eaten by nantang."

"That seems sensible," she said. There was so much she had to learn about living in the Pandoran forest – like all of the Avatar drivers, she had never spent an entire night in the forest until now.

"Where do you travel tomorrow?" he asked. "Tsawlontu happy to go too, if you want friend."

"To the Omaticaya school," she told him.

He nodded. "Know how to get there easily. There is Omaticaya outcamp on way – we stop there, and get you proper clothes. Mìnkxetse learns 'Ìnglìsì from dreamwalker Grace now, so you must look best, make good impression."

Her face glowed hotly again. It seemed that Tsawlontu had not yet totally abandoned his self-appointed task to hook her up with his brother.

* * *

Grace Augustine sat on the floor of the Samson, her feet resting on the landing skid, watching the forest move below her. A small cardboard box rest on her lap, the contents still warm from the fire. It was odd how little was left of a person after cremation, although she was always surprised how heavy the ashes were. She shouldn't have been – she had done this same thing for far too many of her friends and colleagues on this world.

Max had been right. The autopsy had shown Janelle had died from a massive cerebral haemorrhage. The surgeon had tried to comfort Grace by saying that all Janelle felt would have a brief, intense pain before she lost consciousness. It was little comfort to her – she was just angry that both Janelle's and Sam's deaths had been caused by sloppy design work, and had been entirely avoidable. Grace had flayed the skin off the Chief Engineer's back with her words – the incompetent prick. His signature of approval had been on every one of the drawings for the power supply to the link room and the building lightning conductors.

Afterwards, she had gone to Selfridge to get him to remove the bastard from any position of responsibility. She was pleasantly surprised that he agreed with her, but was quickly disappointed when apprised of his motivations. The stuffed shirt had moaned about having to write off the millions of dollars invested in Janelle's Avatar, lamenting that it would screw up his next quarterly statement and reduce his bonus.

Forcing herself to swallow her rage, Grace thanked him for his concern. She did not altogether manage to keep the sarcasm from her voice.

Only Janelle's ashes were in the cardboard box – Sam's contract stated that in the event of his death, his ashes were to be returned to Earth. Grace had noted that Janelle had changed that option in her contract six months to the day after she had arrived at Hell's Gate. She was not surprised – you could always tell the ones that fell in love with this world.

Grace took the lid off the box, and held it out the chopper door. As the slipstream whipped a thin veil of ashes out of the box, she murmured, "Eywa ngahu, Janelle Manitowabi."

The box was empty in less than a minute.


	7. Chapter 7

The night had passed without incident – which from Janelle's perspective was regrettable. She had hoped that as soon as she fell asleep, she would have woken to see the opening of the link unit, with Sam's relieved face greeting her, and the glad exclamations of the rest of the link room crew.

This was not to be.

Instead she woke just before dawn, uncomfortably wedged in a fork of a tree, stiff and sore, her ribs aching from the cool morning air. It really looked like she was stuck in her Avatar.

"Are you sure you are a dreamwalker?" asked Tsawlontu, his golden eyes twinkling merrily. Apparently he was one of those disgusting people who are unbearably cheerful first thing in the morning. If Janelle had her way, they would all be strangled at birth.

"Gah!" she groaned, and then stretched luxuriantly, until her ribs reminded her that they were damaged. "Why do you ask?" she finally managed to say.

"I have seen dreamwalkers sleep when their spirits desert their bodies, and none of them snore," he said cheerily. "They breathe so little one might think they were dead. You snore like an old talioang with a cold."

"I broke my nose two years ago," she snarled. In a moment of weakness on a very hot day, Janelle had taken her Avatar swimming in a forest pool. The clear water had been shallower than it looked, and she had slammed her nose into a very hard rock. Her nose had bled most impressively. Once it healed, her Avatar's broken nose had not bothered Janelle, and so she hadn't worried about doing anything about it. Rhinoplasty for what was essentially a scientific instrument had seemed wasteful, and she had not wanted to volunteer her Avatar as the first case for Na'vi plastic surgery. Janelle had copped enough crap from the other Avatar drivers for the nose incident in the first place. There was no point in giving them any more ammunition. "It is not surprising that I snore."

Tsawlontu grinned ever more broadly. "I thought your nose was bent," he said triumphantly. "Perhaps your name should now be Mìnlontu instead of Zha'nelle." He had clearly identified her as not a morning person, and was endeavouring to shorten his life span by teasing her. She was beginning to understand why Kalinkey might find him annoying from time to time.

"Shut up," she growled, her voice matched by a rumble from her stomach. "Is there anything to eat?"

Wordlessly, Tsawlontu passed her a cold yerik haunch. Janelle tore into it, ripping large chunks off the bone, swallowing them with almost no chewing. Her dainty mother had insisted that every mouthful had to be chewed twenty times before swallowing, and would have been horrified at her lack of manners. "I would kill for an espresso," she mumbled around her fourth mouthful.

"What is espresso?" asked Tsawlontu.

"Coffee," she told him, "A very bitter hot drink that humans take in the morning. It helps you wake up, but if you drink too much it makes your hands shake."

"Ah," he said. "The People have something like this coffee – an infusion of crushed berries in hot water called haw'naerftang. Most Na'vi do not like it because it tastes bad, and turns your piss 'ompin – um, purple. In troubled times sentries drink it, to stay awake through the night."

Janelle grabbed Tsawlontu by the upper arm, gazed directly into his eyes and told him firmly, "Take me to the haw'naerftang. I have to have some. I'll die if I don't get a morning coffee – or more to the point, you will."

An expression of slight alarm crossed Tsawlontu's face. The only time he had seen an expression of such intensity on the face of a Na'vi female was just before Kalinkey started heaving cooking pots at him. "There will be haw'naerftang at the outcamp," he told her warily. "We can be there by mid-morning."

Janelle was out of the tree and on the ground before he stopped speaking.

Not long before they arrived at the outcamp, Janelle had cheered up enough to become curious as to the purpose of the outcamp. She had thought that the Omaticaya stayed close to Hometree.

"No, not all the year," said Tswalontu. "There is a clearing with useful plants here. Many Omaticaya come here at this time to harvest. There is much work, and it is easier to camp than travel to and from Kelutrel for many days."

They emerged from the forest into a brightly lit clearing. There were over twenty tents made from sturmbeest hide pitched around the edge of the forest, and many firepits with large pottery crocks being tended by women. One of them looked up, and cried out, "Tsawlontu!" She ran towards him, taking off about twenty feet away, bearing him to the ground and smothering him with kisses.

Many of the women turned to watch, amused by what they saw. Janelle assumed that this woman was Kalinkey, mate of Tsawlontu. Her assumption was confirmed when she said softly, "I missed you."

Janelle was a little shocked when she understood the Na'vi words unconsciously, and realised for the last day she had been speaking mostly in Na'vi to Tsawlontu without thinking about it. She had thought her Na'vi was barely adequate to hold a basic conversation, but it appeared that she had retained much more than she had realised.

"I missed you too, my love," replied Tsawlontu. Janelle felt a sudden flash of jealousy – their emotion was bare on their faces, and so unaffected and true. She had never revealed her feelings anywhere to the same degree as these two Na'vi just had. There was no doubt in her mind that Tsawlontu and Kalinkey loved each other deeply.

Kalinkey looked up at Janelle, her eyes narrowing. "Who is this?" she asked suspiciously. "She is not Omaticaya."

"A dreamwalker I found lost in the forest," answered Tsawlontu.

"I was not lost," rebutted Janelle. "I knew exactly where I was."

Kalinkey snorted derisively at her mate. "You are exaggerating again, Tsawlontu. I would not be surprised if you were the one who was lost." She got up, took his hand and hauled him up to his feet. "I am Kalinkey, mate of this disreputable fellow."

Janelle said, "I See you, Kalinkey. I am called Janelle. Your mate spoke often of you, praising your beauty and your character, and telling of his luck in winning you as his life-mate."

Her eyes softened at her words. "I See you, Zha'nelle, and am thankful for your lies. No doubt Tsawlontu told you that I have a temper and throw pots at his head, but you are the soul of courtesy."

"He did mention that you could get irritated from time to time," admitted Janelle.

"But you are injured," exclaimed Kalinkey. She grabbed Janelle's free hand and ordered, "Come."

Kalinkey almost dragged Janelle into one of the tents, and started tut-tutting immediately. The dressing Janelle had applied was carefully peeled off, and Kalinkey clicked her tongue at the sight of the wounds. Janelle had to listen to an extended lecture of how to treat claw wounds, and how important it was to properly wash them properly before applying the orange resin. Fortunately, the wounds had not yet become infected.

It seemed that Kalinkey was a healer.

She did not seem impressed at all that the wounds had been caused by a palulukan. Kalinkey washed the wounds with an astringent clear liquid that stung excessively, removing the dried blood. Janelle tried not to squirm away from her gentle touch, only to be told to stay still, and not act like a baby. The next part of the treatment was much better, consisting of application of a soothing cream, followed by replacement of the orange dressing.

Kalinkey stated, "Your ribs hurt, and you find it difficult to use your bow." When Janelle nodded, Kalinkey told her, "Good. I can fix that. Lie face down on the ground, hands by your sides."

A little surprised, Janelle did as she was told. Kalinkey felt carefully along her spine, muttering to herself. And then she started to put Janelle through an amazing set of contortions, using her body weight and pressure to manipulate her back. The first time her back went 'crunch', Janelle furiously wriggled her toes, just to confirm her spine wasn't broken. Janelle was almost shocked to find it was ok.

"Sit up," ordered Kalinkey abruptly.

Janelle did as she was told. The healer took Janelle's head between her hands, and savagely twisted it left then right, producing the loudest crunches of all. Now Janelle was truly positive that her back was broken.

"On your feet," Kalinkey ordered Janelle, who did as she was told. "How do you feel?"

More than a little amazed, Janelle answered, "Good. I feel like I am floating."

Kalinkey nodded with satisfaction, clearly a job well done. She said, "I will need to see you again in five days, to remove the dressing, and straighten your back some more. Your neck is displaced from an old injury, and will require more work to fix. The muscles have tightened, keeping it in a bad position."

Janelle admitted, "I thought the palulukan had cracked my ribs."

Shaking her head, Kalinkey said, "No. It is very difficult for Na'vi to break bone, although you were very lucky." Her eyes narrowed again. "You are pretty, but you do not dress properly. I will fix that too."

It was noon before Kalinkey allowed Janelle out of the tent. She felt as though she was blushing all over – the loincloth left almost nothing to the imagination, and the breast coverings did not cover anything at all, really. They were more revealing than going totally naked, although the noise of her many beaded braids clacking softly together was soothing.

Tsawlontu whistled appreciatively, earning a smack to the back of his head from his mate. "I thought you were pretty before," he said. "But now you really look like one of the People. My brother will be very impressed."

Kalinkey queried, "You are taking her to the school?"

"Srane," he answered. "Zha'nelle has some urgent business with Grace Augustine that she has not discussed with me.

Kalinkey grinned and commented, "She knows your character, my love. You would have blabbed her secrets to all that would listen, and many that would not. You had best take her, and return here tonight. I have much work for you to do."

"Work?" asked Janelle curiously. "I thought that the Na'vi did not labour at night."

Kalinkey grinned even more broadly. "I need Tsawlontu to attend to my needs for many hours. He has been neglecting his duties of late."

"Oh," said Janelle weakly, realising what she meant.

"Come, Zha'nelle," said Tsawlontu, "Before you faint from embarrassment. I will take you to the school."

"What about my haw'naerftang?" protested Janelle. "You promised that I could have some."

Kalinkey disappeared into her tent, and reappeared thirty seconds later with a small cloth bag in one hand. "Here are some berries," she said, passing the bag to her life mate. "Do not let her drink too much."

Tsawlontu shuddered. "Only one bowl," he agreed.


	8. Chapter 8

Janelle forced her new friend to stop at the cooking fires, to persuade one of the women to make a bowl of haw'naerftang. When she was passed the steaming, foul smelling dark purple liquid, Janelle looked at is suspiciously, and took a cautious sip.

A burst of bitter flavour hit her tongue. "Ahhhh," moaned Janelle in sheer ecstasy. The haw'naerftang tasted better than the best Italian espresso - Janelle had not had coffee as good as this since she had left Earth. Certainly not the crud they served in the Hell's Gate mess. Something like caffeine hit her bloodstream almost immediately, and she felt a warm glow spread over her entire body. Before she knew it, she had drunk the entire bowl.

The two Na'vi looked at her curiously when Janelle said, "That was soooo good."

The woman said in amazement, "Her pupils haven't dilated at all."

Tsawlontu's jaw had dropped, leaving his mouth open in shock.

"Another bowl," demanded Janelle. Tsawlontu tried to object, but Janelle overruled him, and smiled prettily at the woman, handing the empty bowl back. "Nì'ul haw'naerftang, rutxe."

As it turned out, Janelle drank another three bowls. She held her hand out in front of her, and it wasn't even shaking. If Janelle had tried to drink that much coffee in her human body, she would have been climbing out of her skin.

"Thisisreallygoodstuff," she said, speaking very quickly and running her words together, tumbling out of her mouth as though each sentence was an uninterrupted flow of consciousness, or perhaps more like a toxic spillage."Ittastesabsolutelyfantastic. ComeonTsawlontuit'stimewegotgoing. Wehavetogototheschoolnow. IhavetoseeGraceAugustineit'sveryimportant."

She grabbed Tsawlontu's hand and almost dragged him out of the camp. Why was everyone moving so slowly? They had to get moving. Now. Otherwise they would be late. It was time to hurry.

They ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran. Janelle was amazed how beautiful all the forest was – the colours were so bright, and the air was so clear – it was wonderful. She could not shut up, talking all the time she ran, pointing out all the different flowers and plants and animals she saw, demanding from Tsawlontu their Na'vi names and what they were used for, and asking all the time, "Arewethereyet?"

It took almost two hours for the effects of the haw'naerftang to wear off. A strange expression flitted across Janelle's face, and she said in a slightly alarmed voice, "I have to go."

They stopped running, Tsawlontu's chest heaving from the exertion of the run. Janelle ducked behind a bush – all that Tsawlontu could hear over his laboured breathing was the dreamwalker groaning quietly but with great satisfaction, "Ahhhhhhhh." There were a couple of moments of silence, until Janelle's voice carried out from behind the bush, "Hey, you were right! It is purple!" The haw'naerftang had shot through her system like greased lightning. If it worked this quickly, haw'naerftang must be a powerful diuretic, so she emptied her water bottle down her mouth to stay hydrated. It was only common sense.

When she came out from the bush, she saw Tsawlontu standing bent over, his hands on his knees, soaked in sweat and still panting. "Are you ok, Tsawlontu?" she asked in concern.

He waved a vague hand in the air, and tried to squeak out some words, but all that came out was, "Ee!" Tsawlontu looked exhausted. Eventually, he managed to say, "I'm alright. Just a little tired. Are you well?"

"I'm fine," said Janelle brightly. She frowned slightly. Well, perhaps she had a slight headache, but it was a very bright day. It could have been just a reaction from the glare. She had always been a little sensitive to excessive amounts of sunlight.

"I have never seen anyone drink so much haw'naerftang," said Tsawlontu. "By rights you should be trying to scratch your skin off."

"Nope," said Janelle. "No itching or scratching. Haw'naerftang is even better than coffee." She tilted her head to one side. Perhaps the human DNA in her Avatar body meant that she was affected differently by haw'naerftang than naturally born Na'vi. Grace would love to hear about haw'naerftang – she was another coffee addict, and felt the lack of stimulants in the Na'vi diet very limiting. Although, perhaps four bowls was a bit too much at one sitting. "Do we have far to go?" she asked.

"The school is just over that rise," he answered, groaning slightly.

Janelle grinned. "Don't worry. I won't make you run, you poor baby."

* * *

As they walked down the rise towards the rustic school buildings, Tsawlontu commented, "I'm not sure it is a good thing to drink so much haw'naerftang, Zha'nelle. Normally, one's pupils dilate after only one bowl, but you were never still long enough for me to tell if they were dilated at all."

"You are probably right," admitted Janelle reluctantly. The rush from the haw'naerftang had been amazing, but she suspected that drinking that much placed a lot of stress on the body, so it would be unwise to drink high dosages of haw'naerftang on a regular basis. Janelle had never been so wired in her life. She was also a little surprised that Tsawlontu hadn't tried to strangle her from sheer frustration and annoyance. But then again, she had been moving so quickly he wouldn't have been able to catch her.

They could hear children and young adults singing in English as they approached the single room school building. "Are you not going to enter?" asked Tsawlontu, as she slowed before the veranda.

"No," decided Janelle firmly. "I will wait until the class finishes. They sound happy, and I do not wish to interrupt."

"Very well," said Tsawlontu, and promptly sat down on the bottommost of the veranda steps.

"You don't have to wait with me, Tsawlontu," said Janelle, sitting alongside him. "You must have things you should be doing."

His answer was simple. "You are my friend. I will wait."

A lump rose in Janelle's throat at his declaration. She had no doubt that Tsawlontu meant every word that he said. She reached over to squeeze his shoulder and said, "Irayo."

As it turned out, they didn't have to wait long before the end of school. The children and young adults came rattling out of the classroom, forcing Tsawlontu and Janelle to stand to make way. Unlike human children in the same situation, they did not yell and scream in relief at being let out – they were much quieter.

The oldest of the young men hesitated when he saw Tsawlontu, but Janelle's friend made a brief gesture, indicating that he could not talk.

When the crowd of students had cleared, Grace Augustine walked down the steps and said, "Oel ngati kameie, Tsawlontu. Who is your pretty friend?"

Janelle was surprised that Grace had not recognised her, but then again she was in full Na'vi dress – she had long known that people only saw what they expected to see. "Hi, Grace," she said. It seemed appropriate.

An expression of shock passed across Grace's face. She whispered, "Janelle?"

When Janelle nodded, Grace's eyes rolled back and she slumped bonelessly to the ground.

"Grace!" cried out both Tsawlontu and Janelle in alarm. They rushed to her assistance and carried her to the ground, and tried to make her more comfortable.

* * *

Inside the hab module at site twenty-six, one of the link units opened unexpectedly. The link technician rushed over to it, asking, "Grace, what happened? Everything was fine, and then your blood pressure sank like a stone, and you dropped out of link. Are you alright? Is the Avatar safe?""

Grace wasn't worried about her usual post=link ritual of smoking a cigarette. Not this time. She sat up, and snarled at the tech, "Just reinitialise the link, you idiot! Get me the fuck back in there! Now!"

The tech nodded. She wasn't going to risk Grace Augustine's legendary temper. She just did as she was told, closing the unit over the body of the head of the Avatar program, and quickly re-started the link.

Grace had never been both so eager and so apprehensive to link with her Avatar, and fall down the tunnel of light.


	9. Chapter 9

Waking up in an Avatar was not like waking up in your own body. Instead of swimming slowly up out of the depths of sleep, it was eyes snapping open, a second of confusion while your eyes focus, and bang! You are wide awake.

This awakening was just like any other time that Grace had linked with her Avatar. She was suddenly aware that she was lying on damp grass, dappled sunlight streaming through the forest canopy, and two anxious Na'vi faces peering down at her.

"It can't be you," said Grace reluctantly.

"It is me, Grace. Janelle Manitowabi, at your service," said Janelle, squeezing Grace's hand.

Grace said slowly, "I saw you die."

"What?' asked Janelle. She could not believe what she had just heard.

"Two days ago, you died from a cerebral haemorrhage," said Grace. "Your link unit malfunctioned due to a voltage drop, pushing you into a fatal seizure. I scattered your ashes myself, yesterday."

Tsawlontu looked from one woman's face to the other. Like Janelle, he could not believe what he was hearing. Zha'nelle was alive, and here. He had never seen anyone quite as alive as Janelle.

"But I'm alive," protested Janelle. "How can I be dead? If I was dead, I couldn't be in my Avatar. Look at me!"

"Help me up," ordered Grace. "I can't think while I'm lying on the ground."

Janelle and Tsawlontu stood, extended their hands to Grace, and hauled her on to her feet. Grace looked searchingly at Janelle's face. Eventually, she conceded, "It is your Avatar, broken nose and all." Grace turned to the other Na'vi, asking, "Tsawlontu, I need you to bring the Tsahik here. Tell her anything, but get her here as soon as you can, I beg you."

Tsawlontu signalled assent, spun around and started to run.

"Janelle, come inside with me," asked Grace.

There didn't seem to be anything else Janelle could do other than what Grace requested. After the exhilaration of the run here, where she was sure that she could find a way back, to be told this! She was numb, totally numb inside.

Inside the schoolroom, Grace dragged two chairs around a table, and indicated that Janelle should sit. Dumbly, Janelle sat down, staring blankly across the table. It didn't feel right to sit like this, not like this.

"I want you to tell me what happened two days ago," said Grace.

"There was a thanator nest," said Janelle. "I tagged and scanned the two adults and the cubs, with a little difficulty." She indicated the dressing on her side. "The male hit me before the dart took effect, and both my com unit and my rifle were broken. I didn't have long to get clear, so I ran for a pinnacle, and took shelter in a cave. I had only been there less than a minute when I got a splitting headache and lost consciousness. I came to several hours later, after sunset, and I was still in my Avatar in the cave. That's all I know."

"What time did you get the headache?" asked Grace.

"I'm not sure," said Janelle. "Mid afternoon, I think. Let me check." Janelle pulled the data tablet from her kitbag, switched it on and checked the scan date of the male thanator. "It would have been not long after 14:10," she said. "That's when I scanned the male."

Grace watched Janelle's practiced hands manipulate the data on her tablet. If nothing else convinced her that it was truly Janelle's personality occupying her Avatar, it was seeing the slick movements of Janelle's hands across the surface of the tablet. No Na'vi could have possibly duplicated those movements, that surety of purpose that showed familiarity and constant use of human information technology from childhood.

"Holy fuck," whispered Grace. "It really is you."

"You mean I really am dead?" Janelle still couldn't accept what she was being told.

Grace placed a gentle hand on Janelle's arm. "There's something else, Janelle. Sam's dead too. He died trying to save you."

"Oh," murmured Janelle. It was too much news to comprehend. The body she was born in, the body that she had inhabited for over forty years no longer existed. She was dead. Janelle stood suddenly, thrusting the chair behind her almost to the wall. "You have to take me back, back to Hell's Gate!" she shouted. "I have to be there! I have to know what went wrong!"

"No," said Grace, standing to gaze calmly into Janelle's panicked eyes. "You can't ever go back."

"Why not?" demanded Janelle, her hands compulsively flexing, as though she wanted to tear something apart. Something, anything – she didn't care.

Grace walked around the table, and took hold of Janelle's upper arms. "I need you to understand something, Janelle. You are dead. You have a death certificate, your body has been cremated and your ashes scattered. Doctor Janelle Manitowabi , noted xeno-zoologist and former employee of the RDA, no longer has any legal existence. The body you are now occupying is the property of the RDA. You now have no legal rights whatsoever. What do you think they will do to you when they find out you survived the death of your human body? You are a scientist – what would you do in their place?"

The words that Grace spoke sounded like the knell of doom. Janelle whispered, "They will vivisect me, cut me apart into thousands of sample jars to find out what happened, and see if they can duplicate it." She shivered from fear. Grace was right – she never could return to human society. Human law did not recognise the right to live of any sapient species other than Man. Everything else was just property. Janelle was no longer human, she was a thing.

"I want to be outside," said Janelle softly. "I don't belong in places like this anymore, do I?"

Grace sadly shook her head. "No."

They walked together out of the schoolhouse, down onto the lawn around the buildings. Janelle sighed, "I don't think a more beautiful world could have chosen me."

Grace's head snapped around towards Janelle. These were very strange words to have said, and she started to worry for her friend's sanity. If this had happened to Grace, even now they would be calling for the men in the white coats and the rubber-upholstered van.

"I am not an atheist like you, Grace, or even a Christian," said Janelle quietly. "I follow – I have always followed the old ways of my People, as much as they are still remembered, despite the savagery of the civilised world. The People honoured the spirits of the animals, of the forest and the mountains, and prayed to the Sky-father above, and the Earth-mother below. I have sought my entire life to live in harmony with the world, and following that path led me here."

A voice she had never heard before spoke in Na'vi. "It seems that not all of the People live within the embrace of Eywa."

The two women spun around, to see Tsawlontu with an impressive female Na'vi in some form of full ceremonial dress. Janelle immediately felt the force of the woman's personality – this was a woman of power and knowledge.

Grace said respectfully, "Oel ngati kameie, Tsahik Mo'at."

Mo'at replied in the same language. "I see you, Toktor Grace Augustine. Tsawlontu told me of your summons, that there is a dreamwalker here that has died but yet still lives. It was wise of you to call for my presence. Unlike other dreamwalkers, you are not totally blind."

Grace inclined her head, but did not speak.

"This is the woman?" demanded Mo'at. Her voice was harsh, the authority of her position ringing in every word she spoke.

"I am Janelle Manitowabi of the Cree Nation," said Janelle. "I am the dreamwalker."

Mo'at walked around Janelle, studying her closely, touching her queue and her tail, but nothing else. She withdrew a small blade from a scabbard suspended between two of her braids, and quickly stabbed Janelle just below the shoulder. The cut was not deep, and hardly bled at all, but a large drop of blood hung from the very tip of the blade. Mo'at drew the blade across her tongue, tasting Janelle's blood. She shut her eyes for a few seconds.

When Mo'at opened her eyes, she told Grace, "You have done well, Grace Augustine, to bring me to this woman. Zha'nelle Manitowabi is a dreamwalker no longer, nor is she of the Sky People – if she ever was. Eywa has spoken – she will be welcomed by the Omaticaya, and become as one with them." Her voice softened as she addressed Janelle, "My child, it is time to come home."

Janelle signalled assent, and went to embrace Grace. They clasped each other tightly – the two women might never see each other again. Grace whispered in Janelle's ear, "Look to your data tablet."

Janelle nodded slightly to show that she understood, and they broke apart. Janelle brushed an errant tear from her cheek, and turned away.

Grace watched the three Na'vi walk away from the schoolhouse, until she could see them no longer. She activated her com unit, waited for a couple of seconds, and spoke. "Trudy, come and pick me up. Yes, use the schoolhouse LZ.' She paused to listen to Trudy's words, and replied, "Yes, I know I'm a few hours early – something came up. A complicated piece of equipment broke, and I can't do any more work today."


	10. Chapter 10

The Tsahik did not say anything during the journey to Kelutrel, leaving Janelle to her own thoughts. One thing that did occur to her was that for a middle-aged Na'vi, Mo'at was pretty damn fit. She must have run all the way to the schoolhouse, but she had shown no sight of being out of breath.

Given Mo'at's aura of authority, Janelle was also not surprised that Tsawlontu's mouth was also clamped shut. He must be clamping down on his tongue to stop it from waggling.

When they emerged from the forest into the clearing around Kelutrel, Janelle was stunned. She had seen hometrees from the air – they were visible for miles – but she had never stood directly beneath one, for all that her time spent on this world. It was by far the biggest living thing that she had ever seen – more like a skyscraper that a tree. People lived in trees just like this one, communities of more than a thousand Na'vi. Her sense of awe was overwhelmed.

"Kelutrel is beautiful, is it not?" asked Mo'at.

Janelle could do little other than nod. Words were superfluous, but she tried. "There is nothing like a hometree on Earth, not now."

Mo'at caught the qualification.

"The last sequoia perished thirty years ago," continued Janelle, almost in a dream. "They were only a fraction the size of a hometree. The People of that land had vanished, and could not protect the trees from the ones the Na'vi call tawtute."

"Tsawlontu," ordered Mo'at, "Your mate requires you."

The male smiled ruefully at Janelle, obviously wanting to know more of Janelle's fate, but he knew a dismissal when he received one. "Eywa ngahu, Zha'nelle."

Janelle inclined her head in response, and followed Mo'at inside the hometree of the Omaticaya.

The area surrounding Kelutrel was swarming with Na'vi, performing all kinds of tasks. A few of them looked curiously at the stranger accompanying their Tsahik, but no-one seemed to really notice that she was not Na'vi. Instead, they went on about their business, unhurried and calm.

Mo'at led Janelle up an inner spiral to a small alcove within the huge tree, and bid Janelle to sit. The alcove was richly furnished, with hangings of woven cloth bearing complex abstract designs, and many beautifully-crafted artefacts – most of which, she had no doubt, were not just beautiful, but highly useful.

As Janelle knelt on the woven mat on the floor, and looked about at the rich furnishings surrounding her, Mo'at stated, "You have been in a place like this before."

"Srane," replied Janelle. "This place is very like the dwelling of my father's father. He had many things that were made by our People, gifts from those that followed the old ways. Grandfather was shaman – like Tsahik – to our clan." An ache entered her heart. After the death of her father, her mother had Grandfather declared incompetent, and placed in an 'assisted living facility' – for his own good, her mother said, as he was almost undone by grief for his lost son. She said that he needed the special care and counselling that the clan could not provide. Janelle clenched her fists as she remembered her mother taking all the precious gifts and selling them to collectors over the web, when they were not hers to sell, but heirlooms to be passed down from one shaman to the next. Grandfather did not survive long after that – he withered into nothingness for lack of sunlight and rain, and love. Janelle's mother was filled with the kind cruelty of the unthinking, the cruelty of the dead in spirit. Despite her Cree blood her mother Heard nothing, Saw nothing, Felt nothing.

"There is much you do not say." Mo'at's voice was gentle, quite unlike the voice she had used at the schoolhouse clearing.

"I am not strong enough to say the words," admitted Janelle, tears pricking at her eyes.

Mo'at gazed calmly at Janelle, seeing the deep-buried anguish within her soul. "My child," she said, "You are strong in the spirit of your People. You have been sent on a long and strange journey to this place, that you may heal your wounds, and so that you may carry a message to the Na'vi. When the time is right, you will be given the strength to speak the words of the message that you bear."

There was only once answer that Janelle could give. "Irayo."

"Za'u fìtseng, ma'itetsyìp," called out Mo'at.

A few seconds later an adolescent girl appeared at the door of the alcove. Her face showed the promise of startling beauty, and her intelligent eyes gleamed brightly. "Srane, sa'nok?" She looked curiously at Janelle, but out of respect for her mother said nothing else.

"Ney'tiri, bring your sister here," asked Mo'at. "I have a task for her."

The young girl disappeared as promptly as she appeared.

Mo'at smiled, and said, "That was my younger daughter, Ney'tiri. I think she will cause much trouble when she is older, but for now, she is a sweet and biddable child."

Janelle said, "Grandfather said much the same of me."

The Tsahik laughed briefly, a rich rolling sound full of good humour. She said, "My elder daughter, Sylwanin, shall be your guide, until you learn the ways of the Na'vi. I suspect that we are not so different from your own People, and you will find much that is familiar."

* * *

Something bad was going to happen. Grace was not a follower of any religion, scorning them all as props for fragile egos. However, she did have a deep and abiding belief in Murphy. In her opinion, Janelle's death and transference to her Avatar was fertile ground for the Irish demon. Something really crappy was going to come out of it. She just didn't know what.

The news that Janelle followed the beliefs of her Native American ancestors was something of an eye-opener. Janelle had kept it well hidden from everyone – there had been no mention of it on her personnel records, and she had never let a peep out to anyone. Grace had thought she was just another nature loving tree-hugger like most of the rest of the science team. If Eywa truly existed, then perhaps she had felt Janelle's belief and saved her from death – if you wanted to believe that kind of clap-trap. God knows, Grace didn't. She snorted in amusement at herself at her last thought. Grace was as hypocritical as the next human.

The tech on temporary assignment to site twenty-six was hovering over her link unit as Grace exited, ready with her pre-lit cigarette. At least something was working properly, when everything else was turning to shit. Grace took a long drag, feeling the relief as the longed for shot of nicotine entered her bloodstream. These cancer sticks were going to be the death of her, if Pandora didn't kill her off first.

Grace walked over to the hab module com unit, told the tech to scat to the other module, and made a call to her new best buddy. "Max," she said, glad to see that he was alone in his quarters. "You have full administrator rights to the Hell's Gate IT systems, don't you?"

The little bearded man on the screen instantly looked worried. "Why?" he asked suspiciously. "Are you going to ask me to do something illegal?"

"I don't think it is illegal on Pandora," replied Grace. The lawyers hadn't got their greedy little hands into Pandora's pockets – although she could see the day that it would happen, if Selfridge and his ilk got their way. No doubt it would be to the detriment of the Na'vi. "It would probably get you ten to fifteen on Earth, though."

"Oh," he said. "In that case, what is it?"

"I want you to reactivate Janelle's Avatar network account," said Janelle. "I want you to do it in such a way that no-one can monitor the account usage, or even if it exists. I especially don't want anyone to be able to track message traffic to that account from other accounts. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes," he said. "Easy-peasy. I can even do it so it looks like the IT staff set it up that way. There is a way to do it on the systems here by changing it to a 'ghost' account, in order to reduce our software licensing bills. Why?"

How appropriate, thought Grace, especially given Janelle's status now. "You don't want to know," she answered. "Although, if someone asks, say I wanted to get access to some of Janelle's data." And that, she thought to herself, wasn't exactly a lie. She did want to get access to Janelle's data and emails – the stuff she produced after Janelle was officially declared dead. "If anyone gets snippy, whisper to them that you think I might be trying to take credit for some of Janelle's work. Make me out to be the biggest bitch in this arm of the Galaxy, and that if anyone blabs anything or even attempts to blow a whistle, their guts will end up as cable ties.

"Ok, Grace. No-one will hear anything other than the pure unalloyed bullshit you have just fed me, and that only under the threat of torture," said Max, grinning broadly. It seemed that her new associate was not that respectful of authority. She liked round little Max more and more every minute she spent speaking to him. Perhaps Murphy had his good days as well.


	11. Chapter 11

Mo'at sighed as she watched Sylwanin take the former dreamwalker to her new quarters. Her elder daughter was hot-headed and impulsive, and she hoped that being given the task of mentoring Zha'nelle in the ways of the Na'vi would provide a steadying influence. The Tsahik suspected that under her apparent fragility, Zha'nelle had the strength and courage of a warrior of old. Any person who stalked palulukan for apparent pleasure and enjoyment, no matter how insane, possessed hidden qualities, including those of caution and patience, otherwise she would be truly dead. Perhaps Sylwanin would learn something from Zha'nelle, but Mo'at suspected that hers was a forlorn hope.

If only Sylwanin could be more like her younger sister. Mo'at had known for many years that it would be Ney'tiri that would become Tsahik after her, not Sylwanin. She hoped that this would not cause resentment on the part of her elder daughter – perhaps it would work out for the best, with time. At least the two sisters loved each other dearly, for now.

However, Mo'at had divined that Zha'nelle carried many messages, and she had already delivered one of them. She had no doubt that this particular message was from Eywa, and not from the People of the Cree, despite what she had told Zha'nelle.

Only one thing puzzled Mo'at. Why did Eywa think it was so important for the Na'vi to know it was possible to take the spirit from a tawtute and tie it permanently to their dreamwalker body?

She sighed again. No doubt Mo'at would understand the will of Eywa when it was time. She should be used to feeling like this after holding the honour of Tsahik for so many years, but still Mo'at found it hard to accept.

* * *

"How were you injured?" asked Sylwanin, pointing to Janelle's side

Mo'at's daughter looked very like a more mature version of her younger sister, although Janelle suspected that when Ney'tiri developed Sylwanin would be out-shone in the beauty stakes. She didn't know why, she just had a feeling.

By her gear, Janelle guessed that Sylwanin was a fully-fledged hunter – she was wearing the visor of an ikran rider pushed back from her forehead, so she must have bonded with an ikran. Grace had mentioned only taronyu that had gone through Iknimaya were permitted to wear a visor in public. No doubt Sylwanin considered herself a full adult, even though she still retained a few signs of late adolescence. Janelle wondered if Na'vi parents had many problems with their adolescent children, and if Mo'at had assigned her to Sylwanin with an ulterior motive in mind.

In reply to Sylwanin's question, Janelle made a face. "I was hunting, and was careless and over-eager," replied Janelle. "It was only luck that allowed me to survive."

"What animal were you hunting?" probed Sylwanin.

Janelle tried to evade the question by answering, "I would rather not say. It is too embarrassing." She did not want to set herself for a case of hero-worship, which she suspected might be the case – or alternatively a total loss of credibility.

Sylwanin pouted, saying, "I thought we were to be friends, and now you won't tell me things." The young women snorted and huffed. If she had been any younger, Janelle suspected she might have thrown a tantrum.

"Very well," said Janelle. "I was stalking palulukan."

"You're lying," accused Sylwanin, not believing her, and pulling slightly away.

Janelle shrugged, making her wince from the gesture pulling at her wounds, and smiled. "You believe dreamwalkers are crazy, even Grace?" Sylwanin nodded, looking suspiciously back at her. Janelle pulled out her data tablet, and brought up the image scan she took of the palulukan nest, with the two unconscious adults being worried by their offspring.

"You killed two palulukan?" exclaimed Sylwanin with horrid fascination, leaning over to examine the image on the data tablet despite herself. It appeared that she had seen other tablets, and was familiar with their ability to 'take pictures'.

"No," answered Janelle, still trying to head off a bad case of hero-worship. "I did not kill them. I sent them to sleep, so I could examine them for illness, and other things." She smiled ruefully, adding, "I did not know the male was there, and only managed to dart him with luck. I was too excited at finding the nest, and did not take enough care to check behind me. Not long after I took this picture, they woke up – I only just managed to escape."

Sylwanin dragged her eyes away from the image on the tablet and told Janelle, "You not crazy...you insane." All Na'vi knew that an angered palulukan could not be stopped, and left well enough alone. This dreamwalker was, well, she had already said it.

Nodding, Janelle agreed with her, and put her data tablet away.

Suddenly, Sylwanin grinned. "Mìnkxetse too is crazy brave. He will like you very much."

"Tsawlontu's brother?" asked Janelle. It seemed that one of the prime amusements of young Na'vi was fixing up their friends with life-mates.

"Ah, you already know him," said Sylwanin, a little disappointed.

"His brother told me of him," replied Janelle, "But I have not met Mìnkxetse, as yet."

"In that case," teased Sylwanin, "I will make sure that you are introduced properly. But first, I will show you where the essential things are – where one sleeps, eats, washes and, um..."

"Does the necessary?" asked Janelle. Na'vi was not big on circumlocutions for shit and piss, being more like Elizabethan English in its robustness than the modern global tongue.

"I have never heard it put like that," admitted Sylwanin admiringly. "It conveys exactly what one wants to say, without being vulgar like a man and saying it. Women will cough, or if they are silly young girls, giggle when they talk of such things. Is it a tawtute thing to speak thus?"

"Hasn't Grace taught the words for those bodily functions in English lessons?" asked Janelle curiously. "There are many ways to say such things, most of them crude and vulgar, but some of them are quite funny."

Sylwanin said, "Grace has only taught us the words 'excrete' and 'urinate'." She looked furtively around to see if anyone was listening, and whispered, "Tell me some of those words, Zha'nelle. I wish to ask Grace what they mean when I next go to learn 'Ìnglìsì."

Janelle chuckled, and rattled off about thirty slang terms for each of the words. Sylwanin made her repeat the list three times, so that she could fix each vulgarity in her memory. It would serve Grace right for not teaching the Na'vi colloquial English, thought Janelle. For a woman who had a reputation for swearing like a stevedore, Grace could be entirely too precious about some things. A little embarrassment would be good for her.

"Why do the tawtute have so many ways to say such things?" asked Sylwanin, after she had the list down pat. "It is strange, and silly."

Janelle shook her head. "I have no idea why they do that," she said, not realising what she had just done for the first time – refer to humans as 'they', as though she was not born a member of _homo sapiens_. "It is just one of those things that come of being born tawtute, like not being blue, and growing no higher than this." She held her hand about waist height.

Sylwanin took her by the hand and said quietly, "Zha'nelle, Tsawlontu told us your tawtute body died."

"Srane," confirmed Janelle. She wondered where this was going, and was not sure wanted to go that way.

"Does that mean you are now Na'vi?" asked Sylwanin.

"I suppose it does," replied Janelle. She added uncertainly, "It feels strange and unsettling, knowing that I cannot go back." She smiled sadly, "I have nowhere else to go."

Impulsively, Sylwanin hugged her. "You will have to become Omaticaya, like me," she said firmly. "Come, I will tell you how to live as one of the Omaticaya, and you can tell me what it was like to be tawtute, and we can become friends."

"I would like that," said Janelle.


	12. Chapter 12

Despite the unexpected comfort of the hammock, Janelle could not go to sleep. All around her, she could hear the soft noises of Na'vi sleeping, but it seemed rest was not for her. The realisation that she would never again wake up in her own body grated at her mind.

She reached up and hauled herself out of the hammock. It was a little nerve-racking, because she was at least fifty feet up in the air – a fall, while probably not resulting in death, could quite possibly end with her being seriously injured. Unfortunately, when Janelle acquired her body as her permanent corporeal residence, some of her human instincts – particularly her fear of heights – were not discarded along with her body, regardless of her years as an Avatar driver. It was just as well that along with her Avatar body came a superb sense of balance, ably assisted by her long tail.

One of the problems she faced with going to sleep was her practice of reading before switching the lights off. This was a problem in Hometree – no light switches, and no reading material. The interior of Hometree was also not particularly dark. Janelle was well aware that there were few really dark nights on Pandora – the orange light of Alpha Centauri A's binary companion and the blue glow of Polyphemus made sure of that.

Oddly enough, the only time it got really dark was during the day – during the intermittent but frequent solar eclipses, when the vast bulk of Polyphemus blotted out the light of Alpha Centauri A. Even then, it was not truly dark – the night sky of Polyphemus was lit up with flickering sheets of lightning, huge electrical discharges thousands of kilometres in extent, and the auroran glow of the gas giant's magnetosphere interacting with the solar wind and the fourteen moons.

Janelle's hand absent-mindedly hooked onto the strap of her kit bag, slinging it over her shoulder, before she made her way up the central spiral of Hometree into the heights. She did not venture out onto the branch where the ikran roosted – the Omaticaya may have thought her insane, but she wasn't stupid – she had no wish to be savaged by an angry banshee. Instead, she sat cross-legged at the opening, where she could gaze out at the night sky.

Off in the distance, she could see the towering clouds of a storm, and hear the distant rumble of thunder, as one of the storms that brought the Wet deluged the Pandoran rainforest. Janelle sighed - Sylwanin had been very friendly, burying her with information about living in Hometree. She would be lucky to remember barely a tenth of what she had been told. Being taken around Hometree was much like her first day at boarding school, when she had been shown around the campus by a friendly older girl, while suffering from a sense of alienation and displacement. It was strange to be reliving that feeling, twenty-five years later.

Leaning against her thigh, her kitbag vibrated silently. Without thinking, she slid out her data tablet and opened the e-mail reader. There was one message, from Grace. Apparently her access had been revoked because she was dead, but Grace had managed to reactivate it as an untraceable communications channel. She suggested text e-mail would be the best option, limiting the bandwidth usage so as to avoid detection.

Janelle considered writing a lengthy message, telling Grace what she had experienced, and then discarded that idea. Instead, she sent only one word – 'Irayo' – and slid the tablet back into her kit bag.

"It is a calm night," said a deep male voice, making Janelle start. "I am surprised the storms have not yet come to Kelutrel."

It was Mìnkxetse, the younger brother of Tsawlontu. Janelle had met him briefly today, in her whirlwind tour around Kelutrel. He looked very like Tsawlontu – apart from the smaller nose – and was indeed a very handsome Na'vi male, but she had no time to really talk to him. Sylwanin had kept her on the move, until it was time to eat.

Janelle answered, "I think the storms will come in the afternoon." It would be a relief when they did. The humidity hung in the air, making it feel almost like breathing soup. "It will be pleasant to feel the rain on my skin."

"Why do you not sleep?" asked Mìnkxetse, kneeling beside her. "Surely you must be tired."

"I could ask the same of you," said Janelle, smiling to herself. Was he trying to hook up with her?

Mìnkxetse laughed. It was a very attractive sound. "It is difficult to sleep when the first storms are so close," he said. "The air is heavy with their anger." There was an extended silence, until he asked, "Grace Augustine taught us that the tawtute came from a world that circled a far distant star. Could you show me which star?"

Sol was one of the handful of stars that could be seen in the average night sky, and tonight Mìnkxetse was lucky – it had not yet set. "That one," said Janelle unerringly, pointing to a faint dot of light not far above the horizon. "That is the Sun, the star that Earth orbits."

He laughed again. "Why should I not be surprised that the tawtute call their star the Sun, just as the Na'vi also call the lightgiver the Sun?"

"It is not surprising," she replied seriously. "Most people think that the world rotates around them, so the star that is important to them can be the only one that is called the Sun. This hometree is called Kelutrel by the Omaticaya, as if there were no other hometrees, but there are countless hometrees in the forest, just as there are countless stars in the sky."

"A good analogy," said Mìnkxetse. "Your mind is keen like the sharpest blade."

He really was trying to hook up, thought Janelle. What should she do? She was left in no doubt about his intentions when he asked, "Would you do me the honour of allowing me to court you? You are a handsome and intelligent woman."

Hardly the most romantic start to a relationship, she thought, but from what she had heard the Na'vi viewed the courting of a life mate to be a very serious business. She hesitated before answering, "The tawtute male I was courting died when I became fixed in this body." Janelle indicated her torso.

"I am sorry," he apologised stiffly. "I did not mean to intrude upon your grief."

Mìnkxetse started to rise when she placed a hand on his arm. "No, stay," she asked. "I am sad that he passed on, but I think we had concluded that we were not right for each other." She smiled in remembrance, adding, "I have a very bad temper, and he did not deal well with my hot words."

The Na'vi male chuckled quietly, settling back on to his knees. "Many of our young women are quick to anger. A male must have a thick skin if he is to survive here," he commented drily.

They sat for a while watching the distant flashes of lightning in silence. Janelle shifted position, uncrossing her legs so that she could be more comfortable, and leaned against the big male. It seemed only natural that his hand slid around her waist, as she rested her head on his shoulder. Quiet tears trickled down her cheeks, until she finally went to sleep.


	13. Chapter 13

The months that followed were more like a dream than anything else. Janelle slowly became more and more involved in the life of the clan. Most days she spent hunting with one or more of Tsawlontu, Mìnkxetse and Sylwanin. Initially, she astonished them with her ability to stalk game, but they were much harder on her lack of knowledge of butchering the spoils of the hunt. Likewise, her knowledge of Pandoran plant-life was sadly lacking.

Gradually, however, she remedied the knowledge that she lacked, until she was a good a hunter as any born Omaticaya.

When not on the hunt, she spent time with her new friends, playing games and telling stories, and to most she seemed happy enough. At times, though she would slip away from the others, and hover at the edge of the schoolhouse clearing, listening to Grace's classes while remaining hidden. No human, whether tawtute or dreamwalker, would ever catch sight of her. Janelle was more like a ghost that a living person, at least as far as they were concerned.

Mo'at knew of her solitary expeditions. She had followed the former dreamwalker one day, and watched her listening to Grace's words. From the hiding place of the Tsahik, the blank expression on Janelle's face could easily be seen. Mo'at worried about her state of mind, but sensed it was not yet time to talk to her. It would be soon, though.

The happiest times were those she spent with Mìnkxetse. Slowly, without really being aware of it, Janelle was falling in love with him, with his kindness and patience, his steady strength and sense of honour. He was of a much more serious cast of mind than his brother, but that suited Janelle very well. She could imagine few things worse than being with a man who was an inveterate comic and joker. Not that she didn't like Tsawlontu – in his own way he was more like an irritating brother than a friend, but one that she found she could not bear being without.

She knew, of course, that Mìnkxetse was pursuing her as a life mate, but when she thought of it she almost laughed to herself. What would a young Na'vi hunter want with a dried-up and bitter old academic? He would be far better off pursuing some of the young unmarried women, like Sylwanin. Her female friend, however, showed no sign of wanting to mate with any male. If pressed into too close contact with almost any male, even her friends, Sylwanin would fly into a rage over some insult, whether real or imagined.

One day Janelle was stalking a herd of yerik with Mìnkxetse, working on cutting out an old female that was beyond the age of littering. She stepped on to a game trail, to be faced with a shock. There was a human patrol accompanying two of the Hell's Gate technical staff. She recognised both of them – Carter, a geologist, and Okimura the surveyor. Neither of them were Avatar drivers.

The guns of the soldiers snapped up, drawing a bead on her. Janelle was so shocked that she stood there, totally still, until she hissed at them in English, "Go! Get back! You do not belong here."

The leader of the patrol snarled back, "We'll go where we want, bitch."

It was a cloudy day, and it was dark under the forest canopy, so perhaps it was not to be expected that she would be taken for a Na'vi. She didn't realise it, but her English was now heavily accented by her constant use of Na'vi – even the rhythms of her speech had changed. Not only did she look like an Omaticaya, she sounded like one now.

"This is Omaticaya land," she answered back proudly. "It is dangerous to walk here uninvited, without a guide." Couldn't the idiot understand how much peril they were in? There was a pack of nantang – viperwolves – only a few hundred metres away – hunting the same yerik herd, and she had seen the fresh spoor of a lenay'ga this very morning, not far from here.

There was a ominous click as the patrol leader flicked his safety switch to off. "Are you threatening us, girlie?" he asked mockingly.

Janelle stared at him unblinkingly. They were not going to listen to anything that she said. Too bad. "Ketuwong skxawng," she cursed. "If you do not wish to live, do not blame Omaticaya when you die." Before he could answer, she whirled and plunged back into the forest.

She was so angry at the stupidity of the man that she called out to Mìnkxetse to abandon the hunt. It was unwise to hunt when so consumed by fury.

"What is it, Zha'nelle?" he asked. "Why are we stopping?"

"Stupid tawtute!" she exploded. "I tried to warn them that there was danger, but they would not listen."

"There are tawtute here?"

"Srane," she replied, gesturing back the way she had come. "Six soldiers and two scientists, on the game trail. I knew them, and still they would not listen!'

An amused half-smile crossed Mìnkxetse's face.

"What is so funny?" she snapped.

His smile grew larger. "You are very beautiful when you are angry," said Mìnkxetse, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

Suddenly, her anger fell away. "Oh," she whispered, one hand – the one not holding her bow – held on her chest, just below her throat. Mìnkxetse stepped up to her, tilting her head up with one finger so they were looking directly into each other's eyes. Janelle's heart fluttered rapidly, wanting him to do something, anything, when he bent down and kissed her on the lips.

Janelle dropped her bow and flung both arms around his neck, welcoming his searching mouth, her lips parting to welcome the caress of his tongue. This was what she had wanted, to kiss him. She felt his strong arms envelop her body, holding her body close to his.

Eventually, they ended the kiss by mutual consent, their breasts heaving with emotion. Mìnkxetse said softly, "I would Choose you, Zha'nelle."

Janelle answered solemnly, gazing into his golden eyes, "I would have you Choose me."

Their reverie was interrupted by a long burst of automatic fire. Janelle broke away from the embrace, saying, "The tawtute, we must help them!" She scooped up her bow and started to run back towards the sound of the shooting. Reluctantly, Mìnkxetse followed her – thee sound of shots being fired still echoed through the forest.

"No!" commanded Mìnkxetse, grabbing at her arm. "They would shoot you in their panic. Wait!"

Janelle knew that he was right. They waited together until the gunfire stopped, and the cause of the clash – the viperwolf pack – ran yelping off, leaving behind several dead and wounded nantang. Janelle called out, "Do you have wounded?"

"Yes," cried a voice that she recognised as Okimura. "Three dead and two wounded."

"Shut up, you idiot," hissed another voice, one of the soldiers, guessed Janelle. "She sicced them on to us, the bitch."

"I did not need to," replied Janelle. "The nantang were stalking you, and you would not listen to my warning."

"She did try to warn us," said Okimura. "She can help."

"There is a clearing near here," said Mìnkxetse. "We can guide you. Summon a kunsip."

"How many of you are there?" demanded the soldier.

"Two," answered Janelle.

"Ok," said the soldier. "Come in."

The two Na'vi stepped out onto the trail. The signs of carnage were clearly evident. The humans had killed five nantang and wounded one, which was still moving weakly, trying to return to its feet. Mìnkxetse knelt by it and gave it the blow of grace, whispering the prayer seeking the forgiveness of Eywa.

Quickly, Janelle checked the dead – two of the soldiers and Carter the geologist. She had never liked him anyway – he had been an arrogant son of a bitch. All three had their throats ripped out. One of the soldiers had a savaged arm – Janelle quickly ran her eyes over him. If he got medical attention quickly, and his would did not fester, he would survive.

She could hear the breath bubbling from the throat of the other wounded man – the patrol leader. Mìnkxetse knelt by him, Seeing almost immediately that there was little hope for this man. He drew his knife, ready to grant him the blow of grace, when Janelle snapped out, "Fpìlfya ke tawtute! Ayfo tspang nga!"

He nodded and resheathed his blade. It was just as well that Janelle had warned him – one of the remaining soldiers had aimed his weapon at his head as soon as he drew his knife. Janelle knelt on the other side of the severely wounded man. She had forgotten that tawtute were so small, almost like children. Janelle applied pressure to the man's throat with one hand to stem the breathing. Almost immediately, he started choking on blood, and she cursed under her breath.

She knew what she had to do know, but her own knife was too large. If she used it, she would kill the man. Janelle looked up and saw Okimura, his face green with nausea at the plentiful blood. "Your knife and a narrow tube," she ordered. "The idiot is choking on his own blood. Mìnkxetse, take the survivors and the bodies to the clearing." She pointed her chin at Okimura, adding, "This man and I will follow."

Okimura searched his pockets, and pulled out a pen. His hand shaking, he handed the pen to Janelle, when his eyes opened wide. Janelle witnessed in his eyes that he saw all five fingers on the hand she held out. She did not say anything as she snatched the pen from him. Two quick movements sufficed to strip out the cartridge and snap the plastic cylinder in half. Okimura held out his knife. Janelle took it, holding it like a pen, and made one quick incision at the base of the throat. Blood started welling from the cut immediately, and she grunted with satisfaction. Carefully, she inserted the tube into the incision, manoeuvring it into the man's trachea – it almost seemed as though the incision sucked the pen in and closed around it tightly. Despite the sudden relief of the blockage in his airway, he continued to struggle for breath as the poisonous Pandoran atmosphere entered his lungs.

With a single slash, she cut the tube from the air filter to his exopack mask, and slid it over the pen, holding it in place. "Tape!" she ordered.

Okimura produced a roll of duct tape, his suspicions confirmed. The Na'vi would not know about duct tape, especially that any surveyor worth his salt carried some to fix any broken equipment in the field. He undid a piece about a foot long and tore it off with his teeth. Janelle took the tape and wrapped it tightly around the join between the filter tube and the broken off pen, and used the remainder to stick the pen to the skin around the incision.

She sighed with satisfaction – the immediate crisis was past, but she still had to do something about the bleeding. Okimura anticipated her need by producing his first aid kit. Janelle almost snatched it from him, ripping it open. Quickly, she applied a pressure bandage to the throat wound. Now the idiot might survive the journey back to Hell's Gate.

As she watched the man breathing, Okimura accused, "You are Manitowabi."

"Yes," she answered, not taking her eyes off the injured man.

"But this is unbelievable!" he exclaimed. "You survived the death of your body."

Janelle turned slowly to gaze at the tiny tawtute male. "If you tell, I will be truly dead soon enough," she told him. "They will come for me, and I will end up floating in alcohol in a thousand sample jars."

"But..." he protested, before the realisation spread through his mind that Janelle was right. They would do exactly as she foretold. "Does anyone know?"

"If you must speak to anyone," said Janelle, "Speak to Grace Augustine. She knows." Her ears pricked – a chopper was approaching. She slid her arms under the wounded man's body, and gently lifted him, turning to run to the clearing. Okimura struggled to keep up, until she stopped just at the edge of the well-lit clearing. "I can go no further," she told him.

Okimura took the wounded man from her arms, staggering a little under his weight. The patrol leader was a big man. It was just as well Pandoran gravity was less than Earth's, and he would not have to carry him far. Even now, the Samson chopper was flying in.

"Remember," she whispered. "Do not tell anyone, except Grace."

"I give my word," said Okimura.

"Good," she replied quietly. Janelle raised her voice, calling out to Mìnkxetse, "Krr ne txìng!"

His head swivelled towards her. Indeed it was time to go, so he slipped into the forest just as the chopper settled to the ground. They stood together in the dark of the forest, watching the humans load the aircraft, until it took off, flying back to Hell's Gate at maximum speed. "You did a good thing," he said finally.

"I did a necessary thing," she replied.

"I saw the face of the man with you," said Mìnkxetse calmly. "He knows."

"He will not tell," said Janelle.

Mìnkxetse said, "I know. You would have killed him if he had not given his word."

"Yes," agreed Janelle, surprising herself a little.

He smiled. Janelle was truly Omaticaya now. There were only two things to complete until she was a full member of the clan.

* * *

The surgeon came out of the recovery room and saw Okimura waiting. "You did a remarkable job on Sergeant Westin," said the surgeon. "He would not have survived without the tracheotomy – his throat swelled up from the infection from the viperwolf bite, even if the bleeding hadn't blocked it first. Sergeant Westin is a very lucky man to be alive."

Before he could stop himself, Okimura said, "It wasn't me. The Na'vi girl did it." Somehow he managed not to call her Manitowabi.

The surgeon looked a little shocked at Okimura's words. "I didn't realise the Na'vi knew any surgery," he commented. "A very professional job too, in my opinion. I could have done no better."

"I was surprised too," added Okimura.

"Oh," said the surgeon. "Westin has regained consciousness, and is asking to see you."

* * *

The sergeant was a mess, thought Okimura, but at least he was still breathing, and looked to be quite alert, despite being on pain-killers. He was holding a data tablet and a stylus, and was writing something.

Westin turned the tablet so that Okimura could read what was written. It said, 'I heard everything. If you tell anyone, I will kill you."

Okimura looked at the sergeant's cold, hard eyes – the eyes of a killer. He nervously swallowed twice and nodded in understanding, as the sergeant stabbed his stylus twice at the tablet as if to demonstrate. Okimura had no doubt that the sergeant meant every word that he had written.


	14. Chapter 14

Mo'at came to Janelle that night. "I heard of your adventure with the tawtute," commented the Tsahik.

Janelle laughed. "Mìnkxetse talks too much." Actually, that was an outright lie. If he could be accused of anything, it would be hardly speaking at all.

The Tsahik chuckled, "Our men call us gossips, but they are far worse than any woman for idle talk." She watched Janelle's nimble fingers expertly knotting what looked to become a bracelet. "I have not seen a knot pattern like that before," she noted. "It is very intricate."

"It is a pattern that my father taught me," replied Janelle. "The Cree had many such crafts – I only know a few of them." She put aside the strip of knotted material and gazed steadily at the Tsahik. "Unfortunately, you need five fingers for this pattern to work. I tried teaching it to Sylwanin, but all that came of it was a ball of tangled twine."

"Some things are like that," said Mo'at. "Like your bracelet, there are tasks that may only be completed by one person in all of life. If another tries to complete such a task, all that is left at the end is a mess."

Janelle nodded. It looked like this discussion with Mo'at was going to be one of _those_ conversations – full of hidden meaning. "I understand what you are saying," said Janelle.

"You were sent here for a reason," said Mo'at. "It is time, now, to start to fulfil that reason."

The former dreamwalker sighed. Mo'at was right, and it was time for Janelle to recount what she knew. "The Cree were many clans of people, a strong people like the Omaticaya, that lived in a cold, wild land. The brief summers were plentiful, giving the clans good hunting and time to survive the hard winters, and they were happy in the care of the Sky-father and Earth-mother. There were other nations on this land, and not all were friendly to the Cree. Sometimes there was war, but between the enemies and the Cree there was always respect.

"Then a strange people came to the land, with many new and wonderful things, but they did not respect the ways of the Cree and the other nations. The strange people were strong in the ways of war and trickery, and they wanted the land for themselves. Those nations to the south of the Cree chose to resist the strange people by the way of the bow and the knife. They were slaughtered and crushed into submission, and many died, losing the land.

"The Cree chose a different way. They saw the power of the strangers, and knew that they would lose in a test of strength. Instead, the Cree chose the way of trade and negotiation. There was no bloody slaughter of men, of women and children, as happened to the nations of the south. Instead, the strangers brought sickness and evil drugs, weakening the spirit of the Cree. The strangers offered to help the Cree in their troubles, teaching them new ways if they would trade land for knowledge. Over hundreds of years, many of the Cree were seduced by the message of the strangers, and they were twisted away from the knowledge of the Sky-father and Earth-mother, losing the love of the land that made them. Those that followed that path were no longer Cree, although they called themselves by that name. Instead, they had become as one with the strangers.

"There were few Cree that followed the old ways, the ways of our ancestors, when I was a child. My father and mother became estranged, and hated each other. My mother deserted the old ways, and used the law of the strangers to tear me from my father. He died, and then she did the same to my Grandfather, tearing him away from the land of our ancestors, making him die from despair. He was the last shaman of the Cree, and I was alone. The old ways were done."

The Tsahik had listened attentively to her story. The tale that Janelle recounted unfolded much as she expected. It was obvious to her that the strangers in the story were the people that became the tawtute, the ones that had come to this world from a place far away. Mo'at said, "The strangers are the tawtute."

"Srane," agreed Janelle.

"A difficult tale to tell," added Mo'at. She paused to ask, "Why are the tawtute as they are?"

Janelle knew the answer to this question. "The tawtute are blind. In of themselves, the tawtute are not good, or evil. Instead, the tawtute are possessed by an idea, an idea that gives them great strength and power. It is because of this idea that they do not See the land, and the land does not See them. The idea forced them away from their mother, so they no longer care for her. It drives them to great labours. It drove them to lay waste to the land, and then it drove them from their own world to this one, where they will do the same."

Mo'at sat quietly for a time. "You have given me much to think upon, Zha'nelle. Thank you for recounting your story."

Her mouth twisting, Janelle replied, "I would say it was a pleasure to be of assistance..."

"...But you did not enjoy telling this story," completed Mo'at. "I understand, Zha'nelle."

Janelle picked up her knotwork from where she had placed it, and restarted her intricate task. Mo'at watched her fingers fly for many minutes, until she spoke again. "It is time for you to become truly Omaticaya," said Mo'at. "My daughter will prepare you for Iknimaya."

"Srane," repeated Janelle.

Mo'at stood to leave. "There is one other thing," said the Tsahik. "If you wish to live to mate to Mìnkxetse, I would keep your distance from the tawtute from now on. Do not return to the schoolhouse clearing."

It was good advice, thought Janelle. She had risked too much already.

* * *

Sergeant Westin had brushed off the objections of the medical staff, and discharged himself from the hospital. If he couldn't tough out a little pain and discomfort, then he had no place on this world. He made his way up to the science level, where the geeks lived.

Westin had never come up here, but he knew the layout of the entire base like the back of his hand. Like the good soldier that he was, Westin had memorised all the floor plans of the entire complex. He knew that he might have to fight here, and there was no way he was not going to be prepared.

As it was so late, the corridors were empty, so there were no lamebrain scientists to stare at the bandages around his neck. He had no need of them – he knew exactly where he was going, and the little mice could stay tucked up safe in their little nests for all he cared. When he opened the door of Dr Augustine's office, Westin was amused when the bitch looked up from her desk , and with a voice laden with utter contempt for a mere grunt, asked, "Well?"

Unlike the other geeks, Augustine had a reputation amongst the soldiers of being a total hard-ass, a bitch that chewed on lumps of rock and shat out 50-cal cartridges. She would have done well in the Corps, thought Westin. He hooked a visitor's chair with one foot and spun it around, straddling the chair with his chest resting against the back. She would not understand the respect that he was showing her, that by sitting like this Westin was demonstrating he thought she was dangerous.

Augustine continued to glare at him, as though he was a cockroach that she was trying to kill by the sheer force of her mind. Westin suspected that she was actually capable of doing it, too.

He scrawled out a message on the data tablet he was carrying – 'Manitowabi saved my life today' – and spun it around so she could read the glowing words.

The expression of contempt disappeared from Augustine's face. Interesting, thought Westin. In a way, she is quite attractive, if you happened to like tall, bitchy older women with reddish hair and nice tits. And it just so happened that Westin did.

"That's a very interesting statement to make, Sergeant Westin," she said, conceding that she knew his name and rank. The tall woman rose to her feet, walked around the desk, and shut the office door behind him. "Dr Manitowabi died some months ago." She walked back to the desk, opened one of the drawers and removed a bottle of bourbon and two tumblers. "Would you like a drink?"

Bless the woman, he thought, and nodded once. Augustine poured out two fingers into each tumbler, neglecting to cut the precious liquid with any crap. Where had this woman been all his life? She slid one of the tumblers over to him, and looked him in the eye as she drained her own glass. He lifted the tumbler to his lips, allowed the fiery alcohol to wash over his tongue, and burn its way down his gullet. It was a little difficult to swallow, but well worth it.

When he set the tumbler back on the desk, she refilled both glasses. It was official. Westin was now in love. Or more probably lust.

He didn't take up the glass quite yet. Instead, he wrote on the tablet again. 'Okimura knows too. He is weak, and will talk. Eventually.'

"I imagine you feel a sense of obligation," commented Augustine.

Of course the bitch knew that Manitowabi was alive in her Avatar body, thought Westin. What a piece of work, to sit on that news for months. Any other of the geeks would have exploded from sheer frustration.

Augustine continued, "Perhaps you should do something about it." One of her eyebrows curled up, challenging him to take action. "I'll have another glass waiting for you when you get back."

Westin drained the bourbon again, welcoming the burn. The cold bitch had just told him to off Okimura, right now. He stood up and left the office. Ten minutes later he was back, and the promised tumbler of booze was there on the desk.

"Is it done?" she asked. Westin nodded once. "Good," she said. "Drink up. There is plenty more where this came from."

* * *

The surgeon looked down at Okimura's corpse. "Poor bastard," he said. "To come all this way and die like this."

"Yeah," agreed the medic. "Slipping over in the bathroom and trying to take out the shitter with your head is a pretty stupid way to go, especially after escaping the damn viperwolf attack yesterday." There was a distinct dent on the rim of the metal bowl. His hand felt the shape of the dent - the shape left by the impact of a skull. The medic commented, "He hit damn hard."

"That's what it looks like," said the surgeon, his nose wrinkling in distaste. He preferred death to be nice and tidy, in a hospital bed, instead of corpses found lying in pools of blood and shit. It was so much more pleasant, and easier to clean, he thought. "And that's exactly how I am going to write it up."


	15. Chapter 15

Grace forced her eyes open. Her head was pounding louder than the drums of the Omaticaya summoning the clans. She liked her booze, but by god Sergeant Westin could drink. To say he drank like a fish was exaggerating the capacity of the average trout.

She sat up and blinked tiredly, searching on the bedside table for her cigarettes. The door to her private bathroom swung open revealing a freshly washed and dried Westin wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, and the waterproof dressing on his neck. He looked remarkably cheerful and refreshed, whereas Grace felt as though she had been dragged facedown through a stamping mill. "You're still here," she croaked.

Westin grinned back, looking very self-satisfied, like the cat that owned the cream factory. He picked up his data tablet to write, 'I had a good time last night.'

The man was insufferable, even if he had the energy in the sack of a pink fluffy rabbit fitted with long-life batteries, despite his wound. Much to her surprise, she found her mouth curving in a smile and saying the words, "So did I." He was a remarkably good-looking man, if you liked rough trade – and she did. Grace wanted to do her laundry on his abdominal muscles, just so she could feel the coiled strength in his body again. Oh, dear – she felt a warm glow spreading from her groin. Grace seriously had the hots for this one. "We'll have to do this again," her mouth continued, talking without input from her brain.

Westin wrote, 'You've got a date.'

Her hands had located her cigarettes and lighter, and she automatically lit up and took a drag.

'You know those things will kill you,' he wrote.

"I know," she said. "I'm not too worried about the big C though. On average, Avatar drivers die in less than five years. I've been in the program for over twelve now, so I reckon my time has been well and truly up for a while."

He wrote, 'How long do drivers sign up for?'

"Six years," was her blunt answer. "The RDA figures that they can save on the end of contract bonuses by having around seventy percent of drivers bite the dust before end of contract." Grace took another long drag. "Then there are us other idiots who fall in love with this place and sign up for a second or even a third hitch. The corporate pricks hardly ever have to pay out."

Westin understood this all too well. He had been RIFed out of the Corps after his twenty-year hitch was up, and found he couldn't stand civilian life. He was trigger-happy. The RDA offered the only gig in town where he wasn't going to end up trapped behind a desk. That was why he had signed on the dotted line. He didn't need the money. If he didn't have to wear a fucking exo-pack to breath the air here, Westin would be as happy as a pig in shit. Even better, it didn't get cold here – he had spent the most miserable six months of his life posted to Alaska on an arctic training gig, and swore never to go anywhere near snow again. He was all for global warming.

Grace watched with pleasure as he dropped the towel and pulled on his fatigues and boots. He ran a hand over his bristles and made a face. There was no point in looking at her for a razor – Grace waxed. She frowned, and told him, "You know to keep quiet."

He grinned back at her worried expression, tapped his throat and wrote, 'A Marine never betrays a comrade. Semper fi.'

She nodded. Sometimes the whole male bonding and bravado testosterone thing made sense. "I'll see you in a couple of days. I'd like to hear your voice sometime, when you can talk."

Westin nodded, and swaggered a little as he left her quarters.

Grace really did have it bad. The man was born to swagger.

* * *

"You are thinking too much, Zha'nelle," said Sylwanin. "Do not think, do! Here, like this."

Sylwanin snatched the meresh'ti cau'pla from Janelle and demonstrated, swinging the banshee catcher around in a lazy circle as she watched Tsawlontu working the practice ikran head. As he lunged at her, she leapt aside and struck, the meresh'ti cau'pla wrapping around the jaws of the ikran head.

It was more than a little daunting. The practice head was made from a real ikran skull, and the wide gaping jaws and many teeth were clearly evident.

"You see?" asked Sylwanin, speaking from atop the neck of the training apparatus. "As soon as his jaws are fastened, you must swing onto his neck and wrestle him to the ground. Then you make tsahaylu, and he will be yours."

"I've got it," snarled Janelle, trying to ignore her bruises. She glared at the watching Mìnkxetse and snarled, "Don't you say a thing." She hated bystanders who offered gratuitous advice from the sidelines. The only answer Mìnkxetse gave was a flashing smile of his very white teeth, and she felt her heart soften a little. Her brief moment of distraction was rewarded by Tsawlontu slamming the the ikran head into her midriff and knocking her to the ground.

Sylwanin yelled, "Don't take your eyes off the ikran, or you will be dead!"

Janelle couldn't make a snappy reply. That bastard Tsawlontu had hit her right in the solar plexus, and she was struggling for air. Sylwanin's little sister Ney'tiri was watching next to Mìnkxetse - the sound of her clear and bright laughter was extremely irritating.

The training went on for hours, battering and bruising Janelle into a pulp. It was with a sense of relief that Janelle heard Sylwanin's words that she was finally satisfied with Janelle's performance. She would make the climb to Iknimaya tomorrow.

That afternoon, Janelle sought refuge with Kalinkey, who attended to her scrapes and bruises with soothing lotions, before she massaged out Janelle's knotted muscles. As Kalinkey worked on Janelle's body, she commented in a matter of fact voice, "Mìnkxetse loves you, Zha'nelle. He will Choose you when you are accepted as an adult to the clan."

"I love him," Janelle answered calmly. It seemed normal to admit to her feelings now, where before, as a human, she had concealed almost every thought from those around her. "I will say yes when he asks me." Janelle could feel Kalinkey smile though her hands working on her aching back muscles.

Kalinkey said happily, "That means we will become sisters."

Janelle felt a little catch in her throat, and her eyes grow moist. "I never had a sister before," she said softly. The hands stopped moving on her back, so Janelle half-turned to look at the healer.

"I am proud to be your sister," said Kalinkey, tears in her eyes also. "You will make my brother Mìnkxetse very happy."

"I hope so," whispered Janelle.


	16. Chapter 16

Janelle slid off the direhorse to the ground, breaking the bond with the animal. She looked up at the climb, and shivered slightly. She was still a little afraid of heights, despite spending years scrambling through the canopy of the forest and falling down to the ground. These rocks floating in the air, held in place only by the aerial roots of trees, looked like an early invitation to plunge to her death.

"You will do well," said Mìnkxetse, standing beside her, resting his hand on her shoulder. "You have no need to fear."

"It's fine for you and your useless brother," she snipped. "You're not the ones who will be doing the climbing and the falling."

The two brothers laughed at her scowling face. "Hardly anyone falls to their death," said Tsawlontu cheerfully.

"Thank you very much, oh my brother of the exceptionally large nose," snarled Janelle."Now I am full of confidence after being told your tidings." The tone of her voice said anything else but.

Mìnkxetse pulled Janelle towards him and kissed her on the forehead. "Listen to Sylwanin," he said gently. "She will guide you true." He knew without being told how nervous she was.

One of the other two candidates for Iknimaya snorted in disdain. He was a strapping young man called Tsu'tey, rumoured to be in-line to become the next olo'eyctan of the Omaticaya. The other was a quiet youth called Tsyox'win, who seemed quite pleasant, unlike the arrogant Tsu'tey.

"Come," ordered Sylwanin. "It is time." She started climbing, obviously expecting the three candidates to follow her.

"Eywa ngahu, Zha'nelle," said Mìnkxetse.

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and launched herself up the aerial roots, swarming up the gnarled timber and scrambling over the rocks like some kind of blue four-legged spider. Janelle struggled to keep up with the other Na'vi, who seemed to be totally devoid of fear. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and she had to consciously stop herself from looking down. What frightened Janelle more than anything was the prospect that she might become transfixed with terror, unable to move at all.

It seemed like she had been climbing forever when Sylwanin said, "We are almost there." They were standing on a rock that swayed in the wind, like a child's balloon on a string. Janelle gasped with fright as Tsu'tey launched himself into the air, leaping for a hanging vine, closely followed by Tsyox'win. Sylwanin frowned at her friend, "You can do this, Zha'nelle. You are the crazy brave uniltìranyu who stalks palulukan."

Sylwanin was right. She had faced far more dangerous situations studying thanators. She took her sinking heart into her hand, and leapt out into the air. Janelle only barely managed to snag one of the hanging vines, climbing quickly up to a place of dubious safety. She reached the top and scrambled on to the floating mountain, resting on the smooth rock on her hands and knees.

"Why is a craven tawtute here?" demanded Tsu'tey, as he glared down at the trembling Janelle. "She is slowing us down."

Sylwanin appeared at his elbow. She snapped, "Would you face your deepest fear as bravely as Zha'nelle?" She was well aware of Janelle's fear of heights. When Tsu'tey made no answer, his face showing his shame, Sylwanin added hotly, "I thought not."

"I'm fine," said Janelle, her voice hardly shaking at all as she stood up. "Let us continue to the place of the ikran."

The worst part of the climb was over. Now all she had to do was run along a series of long aerial roots connecting two of the floating mountains. One tiny slip and she would fall to her death. Janelle gritted her teeth and doggedly followed Sylwanin, keeping her eyes in fixed between her shoulder blades. She was hardly conscious of running through a cave to the middle of the rookery.

"You all know what to do," said Sylwanin. "Tsu'tey first." He passed his bow to Sylwanin, pausing briefly to give Janelle a contemptuous look, and edged out along a narrow ledge under a waterfall, followed by the other three candidates. Tsu'tey quickly moved to the largest ikran in sight, and within a blink of the eye had subdued it with the meresh'ti cau'pla. Before Janelle could make a sound, the ikran with its new rider was airborne, flying serenely into the blue sky.

Sylwanin nodded with satisfaction. Tsu'tey might have been an arrogant youth, but he was unchallenged in almost every art of the body, and his courage was not lacking either. Sylwanin could not recall any candidate facing Iknimaya with such justly placed confidence. She murmured a word of encouragement to Tsyox'win, who edged much more cautiously out into the centre of the rookery.

Tsyox'win passed several ikran, before fixing on one whose camouflage was quite drab in comparison to the brilliant array on most of the fearsome animals. He started swinging his meresh'ti cau'pla, approaching it cautiously. Janelle saw it size up its potential prey, and gasped as Tsyox'win leapt aside, striking with the catcher. Unlike Tsu'tey, his aim was slightly off and the ikran slipped out from under his blow. It moved faster than any Terran snake, clamping its jaws on the forearm of the Na'vi youth, who gave a high-pitched ululating cry of agony and terror.

Both Janelle and Sylwanin screamed as the ikran flicked its head, tossing the youth over the cliff, plunging after him. The two women rushed to the edge, only to shut their eyes as they saw Tsyox'win being torn apart in mid-air by three ikran squabbling over their prey. It was a sight that Janelle wished she had never seen.

Sylwanin began reciting the Na'vi prayer for the dead, commending the spirit of Tsyox'win to the care of Eywa. Janelle found her mouth moving in the same solemn words, words that she had only heard once before, at the burial of an old man whose name she could not remember.

When the prayer was over, Sylwanin said quietly, "Zha'nelle, it is time to Choose your ikran."

"I don't know if I can do this," she said, shaking her head. "Not after..." Janelle could not finish the sentence.

Sylwanin said fiercely, "You cannot fail now, Zha'nelle. There are only two ways to leave Iknimaya. The way that Chose Tsyox'win, or on the back of an ikran. If you do not Chose, you must follow Tsyox'win."

Janelle understood now why Mìnkxetse was not here. She ground her teeth together, trying to summon her courage – she would do this thing, now. Janelle turned to Sylwanin to say, "If I fail, I do not wish to die like Tsyox'win. Make certain of it."

"I will, my sister," said Sylwanin grimly. She took up her bow and loosely nocked an arrow. "Now go, and make the Omaticaya proud."

Janelle knelt and closed her eyes, making a brief prayer to the Sky-father and Earth-mother, though the land of the Cree was many light-years distant. She took a deep breath, then slowly released the air, emptying her mind of all fear and anxiety, and stood. "I am ready," she said, and started out into the rookery, assessing ikran, but none were quite right. Then she saw him – the same ikran that had killed Tsyox'win, his jaws stained with Na'vi blood.

She approached the ikran cautiously, swinging the meresh'ti cau'pla almost lazily. She remembered from the blow that had undone Tsyox'win that the ikran had twisted slightly to the right when it struck. That was why he had failed.

When the ikran struck, it was almost as though she was moving within a dream. She danced to one side, striking truly, clamping the savage jaws together. She leapt onto the neck of the ikran, forcing it to bend its head. It struggled and twisted, especially when it felt her legs hold down its head, allowing her to release one hand and make tsayhaylu. In that instant, she had a moment of clarity, of feeling the savage spirit of the ikran fighting to resist her, and then submitting totally.

Afterwards, Janelle did not really remember first flight. It was all a daze, a total blur. One moment she was on the floating mountain of Iknimaya, and the next she was soaring through the sky, unafraid. The rest – well, she could not remember. She could not ever recall landing her ikran in the canopy of Kelutrel. She was just there.

Janelle stood at the opening where she had slept that first night, and wondered at what she had become. She was no longer Dr Janelle Manitowabi – she was someone else, a different person altogether.

One that was not afraid of heights.


	17. Chapter 17

Mìnkxetse was puffing slightly, the climb up to the ikran roost sapping his lungs. It had been a long ride back from the climb to Iknimaya, and he was worried. An ikran he did not recognise had just flown in to Kelutrel, and he had to know. His guts had been tangled in a knot all afternoon, filled with fear, only to relax when he saw the familiar silhouette. He was about to say 'I See you' in greeting, only to pause, and realise that he did not. "What is wrong?" he asked.

"I am Zha'nelle," said the woman he meant to Choose, her voice filled with wonder. A smile slowly spread across her face as she understood what she had said.

The male she spoke to was puzzled for a moment, when he suddenly realised the difference in the way she spoke her own name. The hardness of the first sound had softened, the short sharp sound slurring into the noise like to that firewasps made when they flew – the way that all the Na'vi spoke her name. He gazed into her eyes and saw none of the strangeness of her tawtute soul. This was a woman of the clan, a woman who had always been of the clan, a woman who did not hide her feelings like an enemy but wore them for all to see. He knew now the words he must speak to her.

"I See you, Zha'nelle Manitowabi of the Omaticaya," Mìnkxetse said quietly.

Zha'nelle laughed. Mìnkxetse had never greeted her like that before. He too could See the change in her. "I have not passed through Uniltaron yet, my love," she scolded him fondly, like a life mate would. She stepped close to him, and it was only natural for his arms to embrace her.

"What is the name of your ikran, my love," he asked gently. All taronyu knew the name of their ikran after first flight.

She lay the side of her face on his broad shoulder and said simply, "Äie'reypay."

His body stiffened as her heard the name – it was a name of ill omen. What could it mean to call one's ikran Vision of Blood? Mìnkxetse felt his skin grow wet where Zha'nelle's face rested.

"He slew Tsyox'win," said Zha'nelle, tears welling from her eyes. "Before I bonded with him." She paused, and held him tighter. "I know what you are thinking."

"Shhh," he said. None of the songs told of a taronyu bonding with an ikran that had killed another Na'vi. This was dark, very dark. "It is not given to the Na'vi to understand the will of Eywa." He released Zha'nelle from his embrace. "Come. You should speak to the Tsahik of this."

"Srane," said Zha'nelle.

* * *

Westin waited in the bonecutter's office, pondering what he knew. He was not given to introspection, being used to making snap decisions in the heat and stress of combat. The undeniable fact that he owed his life to a Na'vi girl, whether or not she had the soul of an Avatar driver, was quite frankly disturbing him. Since he had become a Marine over twenty years ago, he had always firmly classified all things into two different categories – Us and Them – and it had been very easy to figure out who fell into which category. The Corps was Us, and everyone else was Them.

Up until now, the blue monkeys had been well-entrenched in the camp of Them.

Now his moral compass was off-kilter, spinning wildly as though he was in a storm-tossed boat. Us and Them was no longer so clear.

It was worse than that – he did the horizontal mambo with the head of the RDA Science program, the uber-geek girl and big-time tree-hugger herself. While he wasn't surprised that she wanted to go around again – he prided himself on his skill with the ladies – he was gob-smacked that he wanted to do a repeat showing of the old in and out with her. And not just once, either. She was the best lay he had scored since he was seventeen.

Westin had it bad. Real bad.

He heard someone ask, "Sergeant?" Westin was too involved in his own thoughts to answer. The voice repeated his rank, a little more loudly this time. He looked up, and saw that it was the bonesetter himself. The sergeant leapt to his feet, and was about to try to apologise when he realised he wasn't supposed to be speaking, or making noise of any kind at all. It had been damn hard last night – he had wanted to bellow like a bull, or like one of those dumb big hammerhead animals he had seen in the forest. Somehow, he didn't know how, he had managed to keep silent.

"If you would deign to come into my office," said the surgeon rather caustically, "I can check out my handiwork, and make sure you haven't been doing anything to screw it up."

Westin wondered if pouring a significant number of fingers of bourbon down his gullet fell into the sawbones' category of screwing up. Somehow, he suspected that it did.

Inside the office, the doc was soon peering down his throat, shoving a variety of instruments down there. "I understand you discharged yourself from the hospital," he said. "Only to be expected, I suppose. I never thought Marines were particularly intelligent. Hmmm. Swallow, if you would. Yes, ah, a little inflammation in the gullet, as you military chaps call it. Not unsurprising, I suppose. At least you haven't been trying to use your vocal chords. I suppose you have to have a modicum of good sense to be a sergeant. Still," he said, "There is no understanding the military mind, not for us civilians."

The surgeon muttered to himself some more – it seemed he did not require any conversational skills from Westin at all, which was fine by him. Finally, the surgeon said, "You should be able to talk tomorrow, as long as you're not doing any drill-ground shouting."

As the sergeant was about to leave the office, the surgeon added, "Give my compliments to Grace Augustine – I would never have picked her as a screamer. Oh, and by the way, remind her that the walls here aren't well sound-proofed. I'll be wearing earplugs next time you go calling on her."

Westin hesitated for a moment, nodded, and kept on walking right out that door.

He had it really bad.

* * *

Mo'at pondered the new taronyu and the one courting her. Their future was as clear as the light of day to her – Mìnkxetse was holding her hand so tightly that even toruk could not carry Zha'nelle off. She had no doubt that Eywa would bless their mating. She sighed, remembering the lost days when she had been young, and a young warrior named Eytukan was courting her.

"Zha'nelle," said Mo'at cautiously, "The name of your ikran is quite disturbing, as names are sent by Eywa, not chosen by a taronyu." She watched the young woman for a reaction, and saw only disquiet. "Often a new taronyu will see a brief vision at the time of first tsahaylu with her ikran. Did that happen to you?"

"I saw Kelutrel falling to the ground, wreathed in fire and thunder," said Zha'nelle reluctantly. "There was much death, and all was wreathed in blood."

Nodding her head slightly, Mo'at considered the message from Eywa. It was clearly a portent of what was to come, but these visions were always cryptic, and could not always be taken literally. She smiled reassuringly at the young woman, and said, "I would not worry too much about the vision, Zha'nelle. They are always difficult to interpret, and often the events they portray never come to pass."

Smiling wryly, Zha'nelle replied, "The ancient songs of the tawtute speak much of visions of prophecy, and the downfall of heroes that do not consider the messages of the gods. There is a story of a woman who was granted the gift of prophecy at birth, and all things she foresaw came to be true, but she was cursed by the gods so that none would believe her."

"A salutary tale," commented Mo'at, fascinated despite the seriousness of Eywa's message. None of the tawtute had ever spoke of these songs. It seemed that the tawtute had not always been as blind as they were now. "I suppose her end was less than happy? That is often the nature of such songs."

Zha'nelle flashed her teeth in an ironic smile. "Yes, Tsahik," she answered. "Her name was Kassandra – she came to an early and violent death."

Mo'at nodded. "I shall have to consider your words. Perhaps we may discover more when you pass through Uniltaron."

"When will that be?" asked Mìnkxetse, clearly still a worried young man.

"If you fast tonight and tomorrow, Zha'nelle," said Mo'at, "Then we may conduct you through Uniltaron in the evening. You may tell Tsu'tey that he is to have his dream hunt at the same time."

Zha'nelle gulped nervously. She had not expected it so soon after Iknimaya.


	18. Chapter 18

Zha'nelle sat cross-legged in the heights of Kelutrel. She could feel the presence of her ikran inside her head - Äie'reypay was only a few metres away from where she was sitting. The ikran had a distinct fascination for her person, and was even now scrutinising her closely. Zha'nelle could feel a distant sense of wistfulness from him, as though he wanted to go flying again – as did she, and she fully intended to do so as soon as she had finished what she was doing. It would help her forget the emptiness of her stomach, and the trial she was to face tonight.

Her finger moved across the data tablet resting in her lap, scrawling in bold freehand – she had mislaid the stylus months ago. It had been loose in its carry slot, and could have dropped out anywhere, and the lands of the Omaticaya were a very large place. Too bad. The lack of the stylus didn't stop her from writing e-mails to Grace – not that she did that very often. Strangely enough, she found it easier to write in Na'vi rather than English, or even the Nēhiyawēwin of her childhood. It was helpful, though, having a Na'vi spellchecker on her tablet. It did make writing a lot easier, although it struggled with the grammar.

This was the first e-mail she had written for some time – perhaps a month, and she wanted to make sure that she told Grace about the joy of bonding with an ikran – despite the dark omens that had accompanied her climb to Iknimaya. Zha'nelle supposed she was the first dreamwalker to have ever bonded with an ikran – there had never been any other reports of it occurring. She couldn't be sure, though – most of the reports of the initial contacts between the dreamwalkers and the Na'vi were classified, and she had never been able to gain access.

There was another reason for writing this e-mail. Uniltaron was a dangerous rite of passage, and some did not survive. Zha'nelle wanted to take the opportunity of thanking Grace for selecting her for the Avatar program, and enabling her wonderful new life as an Omaticaya, even if dying had been something of a shock at the time. She also wanted to leave a record of how much she loved Mìnkxetse, so that if she died Grace could tell him...a sudden tear spilled from her right eye. Zha'nelle certainly had changed from the hard-boiled field researcher that she had been only a few months ago.

A sign of how much Zha'nelle had changed was that she hadn't even considered refusing to undergo Uniltaron.

A secretive smile on her face, Zha'nelle wondered how much it was killing Grace that she couldn't use her infrequent e-mails as input into a series of anthropological studies – no doubt one of them would have been called something like 'Coming of Age in the Omaticaya – A Preliminary Study of Na'vi Rite of Passage Ceremonies.' It looked like Grace's chance to be the Margaret Mead of the twenty-second century wasn't going to happen quite yet.

"What are you grinning about?" asked Mìnkxetse, appearing from nowhere. "Uniltaron is a serious matter, and you should be conducting yourself appropriately."

She was about to take issue with his scold when she saw the merry glint in his eye. Zha'nelle stood and thumped him affectionately in the shoulder – hard.

"Ouch!" he complained, an evil glint appearing in his eye.

Zha'nelle held up her data tablet in self-defence, saying, "You can't fight with me while I am carrying the tablet – it is too easy to break, and I can't get another one. You agreed to those rules, remember?" And then she hit him again, harder.

"Wiya!" he swore, and held his hand out, demanding that Zha'nelle hand the tablet over.

"Hold on," she said, and pressed the 'send' icon. She meekly surrendered the tablet to him, and then asked, "Happy?"

"Very," he told her, and carefully placed the tablet in her kitbag, hanging from the rack inside the main trunk of Hometree. When he reappeared on the branch outside, she was nowhere to be seen. "Zha'nelle?" he asked cautiously.

Zha'nelle launched herself from her position on the trunk above Mìnkxetse, slamming into his body between his shoulder blade, and knocking him to the ground – or rather the branch. She shouted a cry of victory, but her triumph was short-lived. Despite her struggles, fifteen seconds later Zha'nelle was pinned underneath him, helpless due to his superior strength and weight. She glared angrily into his eyes, her chest heaving. She tried wriggling out from under him, but to no avail. She was trapped.

"Got you!" said Mìnkxetse.

That's what he thinks, thought Zha'nelle. Her breathing changed, she bit her lower lip, arched her back and gave a sensual wriggle just where it did the most damage. "Aren't you going to kiss me?" she purred, lowering her eyelids seductively.

His chest growing a few shades distinctly darker in colour, Mìnkxetse's shoulders and neck started to visibly swell, blood rushing into his muscles. A tiny part of Zha'nelle's mind thought 'so that is one of the physiological signs of male Na'vi sexual arousal - interesting', but most of her just liked what she saw.

Their lips had just brushed when there was a significant cough from the direction of the main trunk. "I think you are supposed to wait until _after_ Zha'nelle undergoes Uniltaron, my brother," said Tsawlontu.

Mìnkxetse almost leapt three feet into the air in his hurry to disengage. Zha'nelle rose gracefully to her feet and said slyly, "I was just keeping the pot simmering. Just because I will be partaking of Uniltaron and won't be available tonight, I don't want your brother getting cold on me. I want him on the boil with a moment's notice."

Tsawlontu roared with laughter, while Mìnkxetse looked as though he wanted to have the ground swallow him up. "Are you sure you know what you are getting into, Mìnkxetse?" asked Tsawlontu, after he stopped laughing. "You might be biting off more than you can chew."

"Ah," started Mìnkxetse, and then he clamped his mouth shut, thinking silence was a better option. No doubt whatever he said now would be a bad option.

"Who won that round?" asked Zha'nelle, as she sidled up to her intended and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

Mìnkxetse conceded, "I think you did, Zha'nelle. I don't know how, but you did." He looked daggers at Tsawlontu, demanding, "Did she rope you into this, my brother?"

Tsawlontu held up both hands and backed off a step. "Oh no, you're not getting me to walk into a trap," he said firmly. "I know how much trouble I could get into. Kalinkey has me well-trained, and I have no wish to put my head between the jaws of the palulukan. This is all yours, Mìnkxetse."

Zha'nelle laughed merrily. "Are we going to go flying?" she asked. "Sylwanin said she would have some targets in the talioang clearing, if it was clear." She had never shot from the back of an ikran, and was eager to try.

"That's what I came up to tell you," said Tsawlontu. "The word is that the herd is not there, and Sylwanin is setting them up now, as we speak."

Zha'nelle grabbed her bow and called for Äie'reypay. In a blink of an eye, the ikran was perched on the mounting point, and Zha'nelle leapt into the saddle she had been making for months, and had only fitted this very morning. With a screech from Äie'reypay, the pair launched off into space.

"Do you remember when you first bonded?" asked Mìnkxetse as he watched Äie'reypay and his new rider catch a thermal and soar up into the sky. She was one of the best new riders he had ever seen, he thought.

Tsawlontu grinned. "I never wanted to get out of the saddle either," he said. "You'll be lucky to see her during daylight, unless you are flying too."

His brother grinned back. "If we don't get a move on, she'll beat us there, and we'll never hear the end of it."

"Let's go," said Tsawlontu.

* * *

"Pxasik!" swore Grace under her breath.

Max said, "What?"

"Nothing," replied Grace. "Talking to myself." She had been reading the latest e-mail from Janelle – the news that she had bonded with an ikran and was about to undergo Uniltaron was astonishing. It was stupid of her do so while someone else was in the room, but she was fairly safe with Max. His Na'vi started and stopped at 'oel ngati kameie'.

Actually, the e-mail contained some of the most natural and fluent Na'vi that Grace had ever read –which wasn't surprising, as only humans (and former humans) write Na'vi. No-one had been totally immersed like Janelle had, living day and night as a member of the Omaticaya. Actually, the language was better than that – her use of Na'vi was beautiful, almost like listening to a Na'vi story-teller.

The content of Janelle's e-mails was unbelievable – the most detailed descriptions of life with the Omaticaya that she had ever seen. It made Phred Palmer's seminal work look like an lacklustre effort from a third-rate grad-student.

Just her descriptions of forming tsahaylu with direhorses and banshees was astonishing. Her knowledge of zoology and comparative anatomy made her understanding and explanation of the process...Grace searched for an adjective, and the best she could come up with was...mind-blowing.

And Grace couldn't do a thing with them. Janelle didn't exist, and neither did these e-mails.

She wanted to scream.

Especially now that Janelle was going to go through the rite of passage ceremony called Uniltaron. No-one had ever got details of that ceremony from any of the clans. They had all refused to discuss it, merely mentioning it was something that all adults went through, no matter whether they were hunters, healers or weavers.

Grace so desperately wanted to know – or even better, break something.

* * *

Zha'nelle had watched Tsawlontu and Mìnkxetse each make a pass along the clearing, appearing to shoot each target effortlessly. They made it look easy, not missing a single target, although some of their shots weren't dead centre.

She was mounted on Äie'reypay, circling lazily above the clearing, so she had a good view of each pass. Sylwanin was lining up for her run.

Eywa, Sylwanin was good, thought Zha'nelle. Each of the ten targets required a shot on a different side of her ikran, swapping constantly between forwards and behind as well. This was going to be tough. Actually, Sylwanin was better than good – she had shot more accurately than either of the brothers, and she might have been a tiny bit quicker – although it was difficult to judge without a stop-watch. Her run had been just that bit smoother – both of the brothers had to jink a little to make one or two of the shots.

Of course, Sylwanin had set up the targets, so she had the advantage of local knowledge that the other two riders didn't have in their first runs.

Zha'nelle continued flying lazy circles while the other three landed to collect their arrows. One of the rules for shooting targets was to always keep one armed rider in the air, in case they were interrupted by...well, just about anything. Zha'nelle supposed that it was a vote of confidence in her abilities that all three of them were comfortable with her on watch, although she thought they were vastly overrating her skill.

Still, all four of them would have a turn at flying watch, and there was plenty of time – they should all be able to get three runs in for a full set.

It took them about fifteen minutes to collect their arrows and join Zha'nelle in the air. Sylwanin waved her bow and shouted, "Your turn!"

Zha'nelle waved back, and flew off to the starting point. Here goes. She screamed, "Ìley!" and put Äie'reypay into a dive.

* * *

Tsawlontu shouted, "She's going in too fast! A beginner's mistake!"

Mìnkxetse wasn't so sure. He had watched Zha'nelle shoot hundreds of shafts since she had come to the Omaticaya, and her form with the bow was always so close to perfection it was incredible – even when she was exhausted. It was like she had been shooting the bow for half a lifetime. Mìnkxetse could spend all day watching her shoot, her form was so beautiful.

Silently, the three riders watched Zha'nelle make her run – each shot perfectly on target. It was an incredible display for someone who had never shot from the back of an ikran before.

When Zha'nelle and Äie'reypay climbed back up to meet with the other three, Mìnkxetse could have sworn he could see her grin of pleasure from a mile away.

Sylwanin called out mockingly to Tsawlontu, "You were saying?"

Wisely, Tsawlontu made no reply.

* * *

Zha'nelle was unable to reproduce her perfect form from her first run. She had tensed up too much, and hadn't been able to switch from target to target quite as smoothly as before. Still, she imagined would get better with practice.

Tsawlontu mourned the fact that he had lost a shooting competition yet again, coming last, while Sylwanin had won. This, apparently, was a not uncommon occurrence. Curiously enough, Mìnkxetse and Zha'nelle had come out in equal second place, only a few points behind Sylwanin.

Sylwanin confided to Zha'nelle that she put some of the targets closer together to give the lighter girls a slight advantage – ikran carrying male taronyu were fractionally less nimble than those carrying female riders, which gave them a need to jink in a couple of places in the run. Zha'nelle laughed, and promised that she would never tell of her subterfuge. Women needed every advantage they could get.

As they flew back to Kelutrel, Zha'nelle reflected that this had been a perfect day. She had hardly thought about Uniltaron at all.


	19. Chapter 19

"Stop being so gentle," complained the squirming Zha'nelle, trying not to giggle and failing miserably. Sylwanin's feather-light touch applying the ceremonial white paint for Uniltaron was tickling her like crazy. "Firmly," Zha'nelle ordered. "Otherwise I'll fly apart."

Kalinkey, who was holding the bowl of paint for Sylwanin, suggested, "Perhaps Mìnkxetse should apply the paint. I'm sure Zha'nelle would find that much more palatable."

Sylwanin snorted derisively. "From what I heard from Tsawlontu about the roosting branch, both of them would end up splattered with paint and Zha'nelle would already be mated." She continued to apply the paint deftly, albeit with a little more pressure. "Is that better?"

"A little," conceded Zha'nelle. As much as she liked Sylwanin, she would have preferred Mìnkxetse to be painting her. It would have been much more fun, although she probably would have disgraced herself, and her future life-mate. So it was probably just as well.

"All done," announced Sylwanin, who stepped back to run a critical eye over her work.

Ney'tiri, who had been watching the whole process of preparing Zha'nelle for Uniltaron very closely, commented, "Zha'nelle looks very pretty in paint, even though her nose is bent."

"I'm sure you will be much prettier than me when it is your time," said Zha'nelle, smiling at the girl.

"Irayo," mouthed Sylwanin, who had quietly complained about letting her younger sister watch. Mo'at had overruled Sylwanin's objections by telling her it was well past time that Ney'tiri stopped playing children's games and started learning what it was to be an adult of the Omaticaya. The tone of voice Mo'at had used brooked no objections.

"Sylwanin, will you paint me when it is my turn for Uniltaron?" asked Ney'tiri.

The question appeared to surprise Sylwanin, who hesitated slightly before saying, "Of course. I'm your sister, aren't I?"

"It's time, Zha'nelle," interrupted Kalinkey.

Zha'nelle nodded in agreement. It was time.

* * *

At least the entire clan wasn't watching, thought Zha'nelle. She was in the same alcove where Mo'at received her into the care of the Omaticaya, all those months ago. She sat down cross-legged in front of Mo'at, her two daughters and Kalinkey providing moral support to either side and behind her.

"You are ready?" asked Mo'at.

"Srane," affirmed Zha'nelle. There was no backing out now. Kalinkey passed her the bowl containing the glow-worm, which Zha'nelle promptly flicked into her open mouth, taking care not to chew it. Ney'tiri had told her they tasted horrible – her sister confirmed the story, telling Zha'nelle that her sister had been punished by being kept from Grace's school for two weeks for eating one. Even now Zha'nelle could feel the live worm writhing on her tongue, and it was all she could do not to throw up.

Sylwanin gave passed her the bowl of water, which sufficed to flush the disgusting thing down her gullet.

Mo'at said solemnly, "May Eywa grant you a vision of your totem beast, and lead you safely from your dream hunt." She reached into a stone jar and carefully extracted a kali'weya, the scorpion-like arthropod rattling its legs and stinger, trying to strike the Tsahik but failing.

Zha'nelle swallowed nervously. Every muscle in her body was shrieking to run from this poisonous creature, but she resisted their call. If she did not do this thing, she would never be one of the clan.

She blinked once, and while her eyes were shut Mo'at moved faster than a cobra, placing the kali'weya against her arm and triggering the sting. She didn't even have time to flinch. Her arm started to pulse with a burning heat, and Mo'at's face before her started to swim and blur.

* * *

Mo'at was pleased. The former dreamwalker was conducting herself bravely, as well as any of the People that submitted to Uniltaron. Even now she was slipping into the trance of Uniltaron, closing her eyes and singing little fragments of songs in a incomprehensible mix of Na'vi, English and another language that Mo'at did not recognise, while she rocked back and forth, shaking her head from side to side. Now it was just a matter of time, while Zha'nelle searched her soul for her totem animal.

All they could do was wait, monitor her body heat and give her sips of water to drink every few minutes. For more than half-an-hour it was like this, until Zha'nelle's eyes snapped open and she became very still.

Mo'at froze - this wasn't supposed to happen, nor was what happened next. Zha'nelle's gaze focused on Mo'at's face, drilling into her very soul. She said coldly in 'Ìnglìsì, "Tsahik, listen well. These words will not be spoken again."

The young woman took a single long breath, shut her eyes and then began to speak her message, as though she was reciting from memory.

_ Alone and free she walks, broken yet whole,  
__ Into warm nest of short life and long death,  
__ Dry mouth bringer of fear greets her soul,  
__ Black sister does steal not her own life-breath._

_ Beginning and end trouble her no more,  
__ For ride, ride she must, yet too late to save  
__ Future from past, earth from sky, for dread war  
__ Shall cruelly come to slay coward and brave._

_ Watch, watch for enemy, empty not broke,  
__ Only chosen one may save Eywa's folk._

Cold shivers ran down Mo'at's spine. It was clear to Mo'at that this was not Zha'nelle speaking. Another had possessed her body, delivering a message directly to her. Such a thing only happened in the most ancient songs, her mind cried out, in the time of the old heroes.

After Zha'nelle fell silent, Ney'tiri asked curiously, "What did Zha'nelle mean? Why was she speaking 'Ìnglìsì? "

"Shhh," hushed her older sister. Sylwanin knew who had spoken, and she was afraid.

The impact of the dark message was such that all had taken their eyes off Zha'nelle. No-one had noticed her eyes roll back, and every muscle lock rigid. She emitted a faint whimper, and slumped to one side. Kalinkey moved to support her and then recoiled. "Look!" she cried.

Zha'nelle was frothing at the mouth, like nothing any of the Na'vi had ever seen before, and then her entire body started to convulse and thrash, slamming her head against the floor.

"What do I do?" asked Kalinkey desperately. This was totally outside her experience. Was this a dreamwalker sickness or something even more deadly?

Mo'at made a snap decision. "Hold her down," she ordered. "Stop her from hurting herself."

The strength of her convulsions was immense. It took all four women to pin her down and hold her still, and even then Zha'nelle almost lifted all four off the ground when she arched her back. What was even more horrifying was seeing the muscles writhe like snakes under her skin.

"What is happening?" hissed Sylwanin.

Mo'at thought she knew what this was. "Her body could not contain all of Eywa's spirit without paying a price," said the Tsahik.

An awed silence fell on the women as Zha'nelle's struggles slowly grew weaker, and then ceased altogether. There was an extended silence until Zha'nelle spoke in slightly muffled Na'vi, "Why are all four of you holding me down? Have we finished?"

* * *

The remainder of the ceremony went well enough, thought Mo'at. Just as well that Tsu'tey had gone first – she did not think she could cope with another candidate for Uniltaron right now.

It was clear to the Tsahik that Zha'nelle had no memory of what had passed during Uniltaron – which was probably just as well. Mo'at had bound her daughters and Kalinkey to secrecy, never to mention what they had heard. She needed time to interpret Eywa's message – to interpret all of Eywa's messages that Zha'nelle carried. What did they mean?

Mìnkxetse and Zha'nelle slipped away from the celebration as early as they could, leaving the centre of attention to Tsu'tey. After all, he was probably going to be olo'eyktan some day, and Zha'nelle was just a humble taronyu.

When they arrived at Utral Aymokriyä, Zha'nelle asked playfully, "Is where you bring all your girls?"

Mìnkxetse laughed back, "Only the women I make tsahaylu with." He stopped, pulled her to him and gently kissed her, wondering at the beauty of her face, softly lit by the tree of voices. "I Choose you, Zha'nelle," whispered Mìnkxetse, tracing her crooked nose. "To be my mate through life."

"I Choose you," said Zha'nelle fiercely, and kissed him deeply, making him entirely aware of her depth of feeling for him. It may not have been traditional for a woman to reply thus, but her fierce independence was one of the reasons why Mìnkxetse loved this woman so much.

They knelt, gazing into each other's eyes, and joined in tsahaylu. Zha'nelle knew at that moment she had made the right decision in loving this man, as her soul was overwhelmed with a torrent of love and joy and glorious sensation. She would be with Mìnkxetse until her soul returned to Eywa, and she would be happy, and love him with all her being.

After they had mated, the two lovers rested side by side until Zha'nelle spoke. "Mìnkxetse," she asked softly.

"What is it, my love?" he answered drowsily, his hand gently caressing her rounded hip.

"I'm curious about something," she said. "Why do you have four fingers on each hand, and I have five?"


	20. Chapter 20

Zha'nelle was grumpy and tired. Her new mate had dragged her from what had been a very pleasant place back to Kelutrel, and not explained why. He hadn't even answered her question. "I don't see what the big deal is," she grumbled. "it's only one finger, and I just wanted to know." If this was how being a life-mate to Mìnkxetse was going to be, then perhaps she had made the wrong decision.

The celebration was long over, and the only clan members still awake were the two sentries. "Wait here," ordered Mìnkxetse.

She was about to object that she was going to do no such thing until Zha'nelle saw the concern and worry in his face. There were even tears welling in his eyes. Zha'nelle nodded in reluctant agreement.

Mìnkxetse kissed her gently on the forehead and whispered, "Good girl."

He was only gone a few minutes, reappearing with the Tsahik in tow, without her ceremonial dress. Zhan'elle chuckled to herself, and wondered how that conversation had gone. Mo'at was well known for being a sound sleeper.

"Oel ngati kameie," murmured Zha'nelle respectfully.

Mo'at nodded brusquely at the greeting and turned to Mìnkxetse. "I thought you said there was something wrong," she snapped, obviously in a bad mood at being woken up. Her mate was about to catch hell.

"Ask the Tsahik the same question you asked me," asked Mìnkxetse gently.

"Do I have to?" asked Zha'nelle. When her mate nodded curtly, she sighed, "I just wanted to know why I have five fingers on my hands, while everyone else has four."

Mo'at turned her head to look at Zha'nelle. "What did you say?" asked the Tsahik slowly.

"I just wanted to know..." started Zha'nelle, starting to feel nervous now. Had she broken some taboo that she did not know of?

Holding up her hand, Mo'at snapped, "I heard you the first time. Come." She spun about and almost ran to the Tsahik's alcove.

Why was everyone treating her like an idiot, or a crazy person? There was nothing wrong with her. Until she had been dragged back to Kelutrel by her insane mate, Zha'nelle had been the happiest woman in the forest.

When they were seated, Mìnkxetse took hold of her hand, grasping it tightly. Mo'at smiled at them both and said, "I see you have mated before Eywa. I offer my congratulations, and blessings for a long, happy and fruitful life."

"Irayo," both of them echoed.

"Zha'nelle," said Mo'at, "I would like you to tell me your name." When Mo'at saw Zha'nelle start to object at the stupid question, she amended, "Your full name. Humour me, my child."

Sighing, Zhan'elle said, "Zha'nelle te Manitowabi Eywa'ite." She did not miss both of her listeners flinching when they heard her speak her name, and she started to feel distinctly nervous. There was something seriously wrong, and she had no idea of what it was.

The Tsahik touched Zha'nelle on the knee and asked gently, "Tell me of your father and mother, Zha'nelle."

"My mother abandoned us when I was a child," said Zha'nelle. "Father refused to allow her name spoken – he said I was a precious gift he found, so that is why I am a daughter of Eywa. Our clan was dwindling – we were once a proud and vigorous People, the Nēhiyaw, or as some called us, the Cree of the Plains, but there were so few of us left alive. One of our family, the Manitowabi, had always been Tsahik of the Nēhiyaw, for as long as the songs had been sung – my father's father was the last, and there are none left to sing the ancient songs.

"When both my father and my father's father died," continued Zha'nelle, "The Nēhiyaw were no more, so I left our home, and wandered far and long. I do not know for exactly how long, but it was a very long time, and very far. Wandering was very hard, for I was alone without my kin, although the our brothers and sisters of the forest cared for me. Then I came here to Kelutrel, when you welcomed me and offered me a new home amongst the Omaticaya."

Mo'at was nodding as she listened. It seemed that Zha'nelle had forgotten that she had ever been tawtute, that she had no memory of walking as a dreamwalker through the forests of Eywa. Her story still rang with truth, for it was true. She recalled the first words she had spoken to Zha'nelle – that not all of the People lived within the embrace of Eywa. It seemed through Uniltaron, Eywa had claimed Zha'nelle, not just an Omaticaya by adoption, but a true born Na'vi. Perhaps Zha'nelle had always been one of the People, and just had not known it. Mo'at shivered briefly at the thought of Eywa's power – to reach to another world to claim a tawtute life as one of her own.

"My child," asked Mo'at, "Do you know of the tawtute?"

Zha'nelle frowned. "They are the sky-people, the small ones who came to our world with machines of fire and metal." She lowered her voice and hissed, "I do not trust them. They do not know how to See."

Mìnkxetse was about to say something when Mo'at forestalled his words by saying in 'Ìnglìsì, "My child, once you walked amongst the sky-people in one of their bodies..."

Zha'nelle leapt to her feet and shouted in Na'vi, "It's a lie! I was never tawtute!" She drew her knife and spat, "Any who calls me tawtute will die."

"Sit!" commanded Mo'at. "Be silent!" She observed that Zha'nelle had no trouble understanding 'Ìnglìsì. This was very strange, and she wondered if Zha'nelle retained all her tawtute knowledge. It would be interesting to find out.

Remembering where she was, her skin colouring with shame that she had insulted the Tsahik of the Omaticaya by her rude actions, Zha'nelle sheathed her knife and said, "I am sorry, Mo'at. I forgot my place and beg your forgiveness."

"It is understandable, my child," said Mo'at. "You are under a great deal of stress." She smiled in forgiveness – if any of Eywa's children deserved forgiveness it was Zha'nelle. She continued, "You have always been one of the People – for reasons that we do not understand, Eywa placed your spirit into the body of a tawtute. The only way for you to come home was in the body of a dreamwalker, and now you are home, amongst the People. That is why you have five fingers, and not four. In your journey through Uniltaron, Eywa took your memories of being tawtute and made them right, so now you are truly Na'vi."

"Oh," said Zha'nelle, feeling very small. "I think I understand now." She turned to Mìnkxetse, and said, "I am sorry, my love. I did not mean to cause you anxiety."

Mo'at laughed merrily, commenting, "Treasure this moment, Mìnkxetse, for I think that apologies from your mate will be few and far between in the coming years."

Mìnkxetse gave a wry smile, chuckling, "I think you are right, Mo'at."

"Now go," she ordered. "You must have better things to do than trouble a old women late at night."

Zha'nelle and Mìnkxetse both blushed, and were about to exit the alcove of the Tsahik with alacrity, when Mo'at asked, "In all the excitement I forgot to ask Zha'nelle her totem animal."

Zha'nelle glanced at Mìnkxetse, and bent down to whisper in Mo'at's ear. The Tsahik nodded once, and shooed the couple out with a single gesture. As soon as they had disappeared from view, she said quietly, "Ney'tiri, you may come out now."

"Am I in trouble?" asked her younger daughter, sliding out from behind one of the hangings.

"Only if you tell anyone of what you have learned," answered Mo'at. She gazed affectionately at her daughter, adding, "In the morning, bring Grace Augustine here. I wish to talk to her. Now go to bed."

"Srane, sa'nu," replied Ney'tiri.

* * *

On the way back to Utral Aymokriyä, Zha'nelle said to her mate, "You must love me very much, to have wanted to mate with one who thought she was tawtute."

"What can I say," said Mìnkxetse, "Other than I was overwhelmed by your beauty and your intelligence, not to mention your skill with a bow."

Zha'nelle smiled happily, kissed him and said, "If you keep giving me compliments like that, I might just keep you."

"Yes, I had no choice," he continued, his eyes dancing with amusement. "My good sense just fell away, like the raindrops from a cloud." The next thing Mìnkxetse said was, "Ow!"

Zha'nelle could hit really hard.

* * *

Mo'at sat in the alcove for some time after Ney'tiri returned to her bed to sleep. It seemed that Eywa was not yet done with Zha'nelle te Manitowabi Eywa'ite.

Why else would her totem animal be the palulukan?


	21. Chapter 21

"Is there something wrong?" asked Trudy. The LZ for the schoolhouse clearing was normally empty, when they landed – the Na'vi knew better than to get in the way of a landing chopper, but this time a Na'vi girl was waiting near the path to the schoolhouse.

Samson One-Six was settling to the ground as Grace Augustine replied, "I'm not sure, Trudy. Do you have time to hang around?"

Trudy cut the switches, allowing the engines to die. "I can wait for about an hour before I have to leave for the next sector," she replied.

"Ok," said Grace, "I'll let you know if you can lift off."

"Sure thing," replied Trudy, as Grace ducked out of the chopper and walked towards the girl. She had studiously ignored Sergeant Westin, who had come along as one of the door gunners. His voice was still not up to any other duty, but he was as bored as hell, and figured that riding as a door gunner shouldn't be a problem for him.

Westin watched Grace's Avatar walking away, his eyes fixed on her tight buns and her lashing tail. He was feeling very conflicted about screwing Grace. For Christ's sake, he was even attracted to her wearing the blue monkey suit.

"You are in such deep shit, Westin," said Trudy. "I mean, fucking the doc is going to get you nothing but trouble."

"I thought you were her friend," he said, not denying what she said. Jeez, he thought, did every man and his dog know what they were doing?

"I am," she replied. "Yours too, dickhead."

"Thanks a lot, Chacon," he said drily.

"Any time," she said. "Look, you're both good troop, but Grace is the tree-hugging geek boss – she wants to save the forest. We're grunts – we kill whatever is in the way. The two just don't mix, and it's all going to end in tears. You know that."

"When I want your fucking advice, Chacon," he growled, "I'll fucking ask for it."

Trudy grinned back, "Yeah, sure."

* * *

"Kaltxi, Grace," welcomed Ney'tiri, as Grace approached her.

Grace smiled and answered, "Kaltxi. Is there something wrong?"

"Mother wishes to speak with you," answered Ney'tiri. "Please follow."

No time was allowed for Grace to absorb the content message. The Tsahik had never asked to talk to any Avatar – it had always been the other way around. Ney'tiri was already off and running, and Grace struggled to keep up with her, for all that her Avatar was a full-grown adult, and Ney'tiri was only an adolescent.

The path to Hometree was not short, and Grace was puffing by the time they emerged from the forest. The few times she had been allowed this far she had been overwhelmed by the enormity of Kelutrel, that this towering living organism was the home of hundreds of Na'vi. Thankfully, Ney'tiri slowed as they approached. The Na'vi that she saw looked at her curiously, clearly wondering why a dreamwalker had been allowed this far, but none challenged her – no doubt because she was being led by the daughter of the olo'eyktan and the Tsahik of the Omaticaya.

She was led into Hometree and up to the first level, and conducted to an alcove. Ney'tiri drew aside a richly woven curtain, and gestured her inside. Grace saw the Tsahik seated on the floor and automatically said, "Oel ngati kameie."

Mo'at rose to her feet and astonished Grace by saying in English, "Welcome to Kelutrel, Toktor Augustine, and thank you for coming so quickly. Please be seated." She gestured to a rug on the floor of the alcove.

Grace was astonished. She had no idea that the spiritual leader of the Omaticaya could speak English. She had never been to any of the schoolhouse lessons. "Irayo, Mo'at," she somehow managed to say, and sat down on the rug.

As Mo'at joined her, the Tsahik added, "Please, speak 'Ìnglìsì. Although both my daughters are excellent teachers, I find I need the practice."

Grace glanced to one side, seeing Ney'tiri sitting quietly against the wall. "They are both excellent students, and a credit to their parents," she replied.

"It is well that you say so," Mo'at answered. "I see you wonder why my younger daughter is here." When Grace nodded in reply, Mo'at said, "Ney'tiri is to become Tsahik after me, and must learn of the duties. She is here to listen, and to learn."

"Not Sylwanin?" asked Grace curiously.

Mo'at sighed. "My elder daughter has a hot head. She is a great warrior and hunter, and I love her dearly, but I fear she has not the patience to be Tsahik. Would you like refreshment?"

"Rutxe," answered Grace.

Ney'tiri got to her feet and poured hot water from a pot on some kind of brazier into two bowls, passing one to her mother and one to Grace.

"This drink is called haw'naerftang," said Mo'at. "It is something of an acquired taste, but if you have been lacking sleep it will maintain your wakefulness for a time. Zha'nelle said you would probably like it."

"Is Janelle well?" asked Grace. She tried not to look at the foul smelling dark purple liquid as she took a cautious sip. Her toes almost curled with ecstasy as the coffee like flavour hit her taste buds. Involuntarily she said, "Ahhhh. This is very good." Grace just had to get some of this stuff. The flavour totally blew away the swill served in the Hell's Gate mess. What a pity it was probably deadly poison to a human body.

"I am glad you like it," said Mo'at, making a face as she sipped her own bowl. "However, it is unwise to drink more than one bowl. The side-effects are somewhat disconcerting, besides that of staining your water." She took another sip, adding, "It is because of Zha'nelle that you are here."

Some expression of concern must have flitted over her face, for Mo'at said, "Nay, do not worry for Zha'nelle. She is well, and very happy." Mo'at smiled wistfully when she added, "Zha'nelle has taken her life-mate."

"What?" exclaimed Grace in surprise. "She said nothing of this." Her last e-mail had chopped off suddenly, as though she had been interrupted before she finished writing.

"So she was talking to you on her glass tablet," said Mo'at. "I was curious, but did not wish to push her on this small matter. This was little that she could tell you that would endanger the Omaticaya."

At this point, Grace realised that she was being played by a expert. Mo'at was no fool – despite what RDA management thought, the Na'vi were not savages. Their society was as complex and sophisticated as any pre-technological human society – more so, for they were far more mobile than any comparable human society, thanks to their ability to fly banshees. The evidence was all around her, just from the hangings and the furnishings in this single alcove.

"I should not have asked her to conceal her communications from you," said Grace. "I thought that she should maintain some contact with one who knew her as a human, so that she did not lose all anchors to her previous self."

Mo'at made a sign of assent with one hand. "You are a kind and caring woman," she said, "For one who is not Na'vi, I believe your sense of honour is like to that of the People. Those who lead your people on this world, well, the Na'vi do not know them, or their honour."

Grace did not trust herself to respond.

"You are learning, Toktor Augustine," smiled Mo'at. A more serious expression replaced the smile as she said, "Zha'nelle has told of the fate of the people that raised her, the Cree, and their cousins – Sioux, Cherokee, Apache, many of the disappeared clans of their land. Those who became the sky-people killed and corrupted them, such the clans no longer could hear or see their mother and father, and their land was stolen away."

"My people have done much we are ashamed of," admitted Grace.

"It is not your shame I am concerned with, but the life of the Na'vi," responded Mo'at calmly. "Eywa has sent a message that in time the tawtute may be the enemies of the People. This time has not yet come to pass, and it may not, for all things are possible, and those of honour among the tawtute may prevail. Until the time of enemies occurs, you may stay on Omaticaya land, for the People wish to learn of those who would be our foes, the better so that we may kill sky-people. You will be told where you may go, and where you may not – but neither the forest nor our brothers and sister may be disturbed."

Nervously, Grace took a large swallow of the haw'naerftang. It had grown cool, although she hardly noticed. Instead, she was well aware that she was being given a blunt warning that the Omaticaya would not tolerate a free reign for human activities. This was going to be a problem, if Selfridge was going to remain in charge. The man only had an eye for maximising profit, and did not care for anything else. "I understand completely," said Grace. "I have one concern, though. What of Janelle? If it comes to war, she is human..."

"No," interrupted Mo'at. "She is not of the sky-people now, and I doubt that she ever was. She is no longer called Toktor Zha'nelle Manitowabi – her name is Zha'nelle te Manitowabi Eywa'ite of the Omaticaya."

Grace was surprised at the vehemence of Mo'at's response – as though she had cast doubt on the honour of the Omaticaya – which she supposed she had. She really should be more careful with what she said.

"I see you do not believe me," said Mo'at. "Zha'nelle is waiting by the water to speak to you."

As the Tsahik rose to her feet, and Ney'tiri drew aside the curtain over the entrance, Grace realised the meeting was over.

* * *

Ney'tiri led Grace to the bank of the lake of the Omaticaya, where a tall Na'vi woman was leaning on her bow, gazing distantly over the water. Grace wondered where Janelle was supposed to be when the woman spoke, "The Tsahik tells me you were once my friend."

The woman turned towards Grace, showing her the familiar features of Janelle Manitowabi's Avatar, broken nose and all. There was no sign of recognition in Janelle's face.

Grace felt an intense shock. Every inch of this woman screamed Na'vi – her stance, her voice, the way she moved, everything. She could always tell an Avatar from a true Na'vi, and every sense Grace had told her that this woman was not an Avatar. It was only by dragging her eyes away from her arresting face to her hands that any trace of the former Avatar could be seen.

"What happened, Janelle?" demanded Grace fiercely. "What did they do to you?"

The woman showed her teeth, in something between a smile and a snarl. "You do not say my name properly, Toktor Grace," she said. "Say it slowly, like this – Zha'nelle."

The former Avatar was intimidating as all hell. Grace responded slowly, "I did not mean to offend you, Zha'nelle."

"I take no offense," said Zha'nelle. "Tawtute are ignorant and do not See, so you do not know any better. How can I take offense from the words of a child?" She laughed softly, sensing Grace's confusion and dismay. "Though your question has merit. My answer is that the Omaticaya gave me a home, welcomed a lost spirit as one of their own. That is all."

Grace was about to interrupt when Zha'nelle held up one hand. "Nay," she said. "You should be told that I know your face, and that I have memories of life among the tawtute – but they are as memories of a story that one has told me. They do not feel real. They are not who I am."

"But..." tried Grace, only to be forestalled again.

"The story tells me that you are an honourable person, and a good friend, even though you are tawtute," said Zha'nelle. She held out an open hand towards Grace. "If you wish a friend, my name is Zha'nelle te Manitowabi Eywa'ite."

Grace swallowed once. She knew what was being offered, but she did not hesitate any further. Grace talk the offered hand and answered, "I am called Grace Augustine, and yes, I would be your friend."

A twinkle of humour appeared in the eye of the Na'vi woman called Zha'nelle, showing Grace the first sign that this woman had once been Janelle Manitowabi. "Tell me, Grace, did you like the haw'naerftang?"

Somehow, Grace had the impression that an elaborate joke was being played on her. Still, she answered with a straight face, "Yes, I did - very much. Why?"

"I hope you like the colour purple," said Zha'nelle.


	22. Chapter 22

The joke became clear to Grace mid-morning, when she was forced to abandon the class she was teaching and rush outside to the schoolhouse privy. Her Avatar pissed buckets, more than she would ever have believed possible. Not only that, the urine was a brilliant iridescent purple – if she hadn't received a veiled warning from Zha'nelle she would have been worrying about kidney failure.

At the end of school, Ney'tiri had presented her with a cloth bag of the dried berries, and told her how to prepare haw'naerftang, warning her of the dangers of drinking more than one bowl in a half day. Grace had listened intently to the girl, showing respect for what she said – especially now that she knew Ney'tiri was being groomed as the future Tsahik. When she boarded the chopper to return to Hell's Gate, she had taken care to stow the package carefully, just in case Trudy decided to engage in some wild acrobatics.

It was just as well that she did.

"Holy shit!" yelled Trudy, jerking Samson One-Six hard to the left. The right door-gunner – not the rugged Sergeant Westin - screamed as he lost his grip and fell out, only saved from falling by his safety strap, his body being slammed against the skin of the chopper by the slipstream.

Two shapes had flashed past the chopper, only feet away from the nose. The two banshees and their riders pulled out of their dive with a smooth barrel roll in perfect formation over the top of the chopper and took up position on the left side of the human aircraft. "Don't shoot," ordered Grace, gripping Westin's shoulder hard – despite the manoeuvring of the Samson, he had instantly trained his tri-barrel on the nearest of the ikran, an unusual drab-brown coloured beast with a female rider. She was laughing, and waved her bow in greeting at the occupants of the chopper.

"Fucking Na'vi show-offs," cursed Trudy. "Serve them right if they ended up as bugs on the windshield."

Actually, if one of the ikran had collided with the chopper, Grace suspected that neither the chopper nor the ikran and rider would survive. However, she was pretty sure that the female rider was Zha'nelle – and if she could fly her banshee like that after only a couple of days...it was pretty damn scary.

Westin had already lowered his weapon. He unbuckled from his harness so he could get to the other side of the chopper to pull the unfortunate door gunner back in. The poor bastard had been knocked out cold, and his facemask cracked. "Grace," said Westin as he strapped injured man in and swapped out his exo-pack, "You'll need to man the right door gun."

The sight of the two banshees peeling off to return to Hometree was stunning, thought Grace. "What?" she asked, engrossed by the grace of the flying beasts and their riders.

"Take the right door gun," ordered Westin. "Dunstan is out cold."

"What do I do?" she asked, looking confused, and then received the thirty second unofficial guide to care and feeding of the MBS-9M 50-cal Hydra tribarrel. Westin had always held the best use of the manual was as a door stop – the weapon was so simple that any stoppage could be solved with the application of a hammer.

"Got it?" he asked.

Grace looked scared – it was clear she had never fired a gun in her life. Westin just hoped that she wouldn't have to do so today. To distract her, he asked, "How many banshees does a tribe have?"

It was as though she flicked a switch in a brain. Instead of looking frightened at being at the right end of a gun, she said, 'The Omaticaya have somewhere between two-fifty to three hundred banshees and riders. They are a central part of their culture, and essential in the hunting of game..."

As he listened to her lecture about the hunting practices of the indigenous, Westin shivered inside. Three hundred of those flying banshee monsters. If the Na'vi ever got royally pissed off, they would have a good chance of taking out every chopper in the RDA inventory – except the Dragons – and that was only one tribe. He flicked his comm to the pilot's private vox channel. "Did you catch that, Chacon?" he asked softly.

"Yeah," answered Tracy on the same channel. "I had no fucking idea they were there." There were a few seconds of crackling on the channel, until she added, "I hope the brass have the sense to tread lightly. The Na'vi play pretty damn rough."

Westin had surfed what literature was available on Na'vi weapons – there was nothing in the military pages on the net. However, in the anthropological section, there was brief article on Na'vi bows. It said that the average bow draw weight for a female Na'vi was between six hundred to seven-fifty pounds, while the males would use draw weights of anything from eight hundred to a thousand pounds.

The longbows that the English used to win Crècy and Agincourt drew no more than one fifty.

He had done the numbers after he read that. The body armour the grunts wore wouldn't even keep out the arrows the English had used – they might as well have been wearing tissue paper for all the good they did against the Na'vi weapons. The armour was designed to protect against bullets, not arrows. Not even the armoured glass fitted to the chopper windshields and the AMP suits would keep out the Na'vi arrows, not if they hit squarely.

No wonder the brass hadn't published anything on the military net - they didn't want the grunts to be scared of so-called primitives.

"You've got no fucking idea how rough they can play," answered Westin. He glanced at Grace on the other door gun, suspecting she knew very well how militarily effective the Na'vi were.

* * *

"Did you see the look on their faces?" yelled Zha'nelle with glee to Mìnkxetse as they flew back to Kelutrel.

Mìnkxetse had noticed the look of shock and horror on the tawtute faces – on all except one. The one on the door gun had kept his wits, and trained his weapon almost immediately on them. The warrior had also had the self-discipline not to fire in panic. Perhaps the tawtute would be formidable in battle.

"We should not do that again," said Mìnkxetse after they landed. "It is too risky."

"Why not?" demanded his mate crossly. "It was fun."

His mate had an even more fiery temperament than Sylwanin, he had realised some little time ago. "We know now that like an ikran or toruk, a kunsip is blind to attack above and behind, especially if one flies out of the sun," said Mìnkxetse. The fact they had been in a perfect position to surprise the tawtute fliers had been lucky. "Next time, the tawtute on the kunsip weapons may not be as calm."

Zha'nelle considered his words as she stroked the muzzle of Äie'reypay, and slipped the ikran a piece of salted flesh that was snapped down in two bites. Mìnkxetse's words made good sense. "You are right, my love," she said with a smile that almost broke his heart. "But it was such fun."

* * *

"I'm going to teach you to shoot," announced Westin.

Grace was idly tugging the hairs on his naked chest. She wondered what he would say if she asked him to wax – she had become used to the sight of naked blue male chests, and a hairy one looked a little odd to her. Not that Westin's wasn't a very nice chest, even though it wasn't either blue or smooth.

"Why would I need to shoot a gun?" she replied.

He had the answer ready. "Anything could happen – like Dunstan today, for instance. If a leonopteryx came along after he was knocked out, we would have been fucked."

"Like this?" Grace purred as she straddled his body, and started doing interesting things under the blanket.

"Not exactly," he gasped. The woman was insatiable – he wondered if it had anything to do with being an Avatar driver.

About twenty minutes later, both of them were bathed in sweat and panting, when Grace said, "You made your point. We can start tomorrow night, after I finish my reports and lab work."

Westin managed to stifle his groan. She usually didn't wrap her paperwork until at least twenty-three hundred hours. He was only getting about four or five hours rack a night since Grace started making booty calls.


	23. Chapter 23

"I understand that you have been keeping company with Doctor Augustine, Sergeant Westin," said Major Aiello.

"Yes sir," said Westin, holding a rigid parade rest position in front of the major's desk. He had often wondered why it was called parade rest, because it was only marginally less uncomfortable than holding attention. He had been curious about the reason for being summoned to the executive officer's office – Sec-ops brass were not noted for their interest in the welfare of their mercenaries, other than their ability to shoot. Now he knew he was going to be shit-canned for boning Grace, and braced his spine to try and deflect the crap that was about to start flying his way.

Major Aiello smiled thinly. "It is a little difficult to hide your nightly use of the range for the past three or four months."

"I'm sorry, sir," said Westin. "I will cease said use of the range immediately."

"No, soldier," replied Aiello. "I don't want you to do that."

"What sir?" asked Westin, amazed at what he just heard.

"It is important to have good relations between the scientific staff and Sec-ops," explained Aiello. "They will be our best source of intel about the Na'vi. If they don't like us, then we can't learn anything. Now, since a certain sergeant happened to be smoothing relations with the geeks by establishing a friendship with benefits with the head of the scientific program, do you think I will be upset?"

"Not if you put it like that," replied Westin, forgetting to say sir in sheer relief.

Aiello grinned, "I would ask, however, that you remember to lock the door. I am not particularly enamoured of seeing a hairy non-commissioned ass doing the wild thing with geek girl on the counter."

"Now, both the CO and I will be rotating out on the next starship home," said Aiello. "Given that you probably know more about the Na'vi than any of our grunts – you even speak the language, I am told."

"Yes, sir," confirmed Westin. He had to do something while he wasn't on duty, or seeing Grace, other than hit the rack - although Na'vi was a real bastard of a language to learn. "Not well, but enough to understand what the indigenous are saying." He had stopped calling them blue monkeys some time ago – Grace had almost torn his head off for doing that once.

"Yes, well given that," continued Aiello, "I would ask that you provide the new CO and XO as much support as they require, when they take up their posts in a few weeks time."

"Of course, sir," said Westin.

"I imagine you will get on with the new CO like a house on fire," said Aiello. "I've reviewed his personnel jacket, and he has quite the combat record – not so different from yours, Westin. Not only that, but he is a Marine as well."

"What is his name? I may have served previously with him." asked Westin, thinking that for an Army puke, the major wasn't that bad. Not up to Marine standards, of course.

"Colonel Quaritch."

* * *

Grace looked up from her microscope as she heard a group of prolemuris swing past the schoolhouse clearing. The Na'vi children had all gone back to Hometree, leaving her alone to study her samples. She had fallen woefully behind on her work over the last few months – primarily due to a certain rugged Marine sergeant.

She had been surprised by his intelligence. Westin had picked up the basics of Na'vi in very quick order, much faster than most of the scientific staff, even though the language was very different to English. When Grace mentioned to him he had laughed, and said being able to butcher languages was a prime job requirement for any Marine NCO, noting that he spoke Yoruba, Hausa and Spanish – or at least enough so he could order a beer, find the local red-light district and warn of a police raid.

Her advice that none of these activities was really an option on Pandora brought forth a glum face, as he bemoaned Hell's Gate as a hardship post. After she poked him in the ribs, he did concede that there were certain ameliorating factors that made the post more attractive than might otherwise have been the case.

Was it an infatuation?

She didn't think so. Oh, she liked him a lot, and he was great in the sack – but would she give up everything for him? Give up her job on Pandora, and the Na'vi? Grace was pretty certain that she wouldn't - just like he wouldn't give up being a soldier. For both of them, their jobs defined who they were.

Grace lowered her eyes back to the microscope, and muttered to herself, "Very interesting." The cell structure of the plant root she was studying seemed extraordinarily sensitive to electromagnetic fields. "I wonder why it does that?"

* * *

The palulukan were dozing in their nest as Zha'nelle slithered on her belly along the aerial root above, closely followed by Sylwanin. There was a wide outgrowth of hard fungus a few metres away that provided a perfect viewing platform. She stopped at the edge of the fungus and breathed a sigh of relief. The approach had been a success.

When Sylwanin joined her on the fungus, she whispered, "What now?"

"We watch them until an hour before sunset to see what they do, and then we leave the same way we came," replied Zha'nelle, trying to suppress her pleasure of a day doing what she like doing most – except joining in tsahaylu with Mìnkxetse.

"All day?" asked Sylwanin incredulously, struggling to keep her voice low. When Zha'nelle had offered to take her to see the palulukan nest, she had neglected to ask how long they would be there.

"Srane," replied Zha'nelle, taking care to minimise the hissing of her speech, so as not to disturb the predators below. They were extraordinarily sensitive to unexpected sounds.

A sulky expression settled on Sylwanin's face, as she settled down into what would appear to be a day of absolute boredom. "At least we are safe here, out of reach," she whispered to herself.

Zha'nelle grinned toothily to herself as she heard her friend's sotto voce comment. The two Na'vi were well within the reach of an adult palulukan. What Zha'nelle had not told Sylwanin was that she had spent two months getting the palulukan comfortable with her presence, and her scent, gradually getting closer with each visit, with the objective of the palulukan perceiving her as a non-threatening intermittently present landscape feature.

She had been surprised how little the Omaticaya actually knew of her totem animal – all the songs related was that the palulukan were deadly and should be avoided at all costs. Oh, and the minor rider that they were evil. Once Zha'nelle had discovered that lack of information, she had decided to add to the teaching songs by learning all she could of their habits. If Zha'nelle was to properly honour her totem animal, she had to teach the Omaticaya all she could discover – no matter what the risk.

The first time she came back from stalking the nest of the palulukan, Mìnkxetse had exploded with fury, almost like the kxangangang tskxe of the tawtute with which the small ones scarred the face of Eywa. Zha'nelle had been quite surprised at his reaction. She had thought that he was the calmest of men – indeed, that was his reputation within the clan.

Mìnkxetse absolutely forbade Zha'nelle to pursue her interest in the palulukan, and no matter how much she raged back at him, he refused to budge. Her anger could be heard throughout Kelutrel, but to no avail. Zha'nelle drew her knife on her own mate, but she could not strike him, casting her blade away. She broke down and wept, sobbing that he was locking her in a cage, as though she was a possession of the tawtute.

It was only then that he had relented, and begged her forgiveness.

At that point Mo'at interrupted the drama, and suggested that Zha'nelle take Mìnkxetse to the nest, to show him the care that Zha'nelle took of her own safety. Then he would understand what she did, and the life-mates could have a calm discussion regarding this matter, instead of disturbing the peace of Kelutrel.

The following day he had accompanied her to the next, and she showed him all the precautions she took, insisting that he did the same. Afterwards, he still told her she was insane, and that he did not like her doing this thing. Mìnkxetse did, however, agree that she could continue her mad obsession with the palulukan.

On their return to Kelutrel, Mo'at drew Zha'nelle aside, and suggested that she had much to learn about managing her mate. The Tsahik then introduced Zha'nelle to the secret women's songs of the Omaticaya, the ones that related the many ways for a woman to twist her mate around her little finger. It turned out that Zha'nellle had missed much in her education through her lack of a mother.

Zha'nelle grinned as she remembered the songs that Mo'at had taught her that night. Many of them were very bawdy and direct, making Zha'nelle's skin blush hot all over. She had blushed even hotter when she tried out some of their suggestions that night with Mìnkxetse.

"Look," whispered Sylwanin, yanking Zha'nelle's attention back to the nest. The male palulukan was leaving, probably to go hunting. It would be interesting to see what prey it brought back to the nest.


	24. Chapter 24

Quaritch was an ass-hole.

That was Westin's first impression on meeting the new CO. Unfortunately, it looked like his ability to instantly assess the quality of his officers had not deserted him. Quaritch was most definitely an ass-hole, despite him being a Marine.

Actually, it was worse than that. Quaritch was a stark staring mad psychopath.

Westin had done some digging, and found out that one of chopper crew chiefs had served under him in Nigeria. Apparently, Colonel Quaritch had been shuffled out of his last combat command into a desk job due to use of excessive force against the civilian population. The crew chief had said Quaritch had ordered a massacre of women and children at a refugee camp – intel had the local resistance leader hiding there.

As it turned out, the intel had been correct, but the airstrike Quaritch had ordered killed over five thousand civilian women and children just to get one man. It was even worse – the bastard had watched the whole thing from his command chopper, just so that he could smell the burning flesh.

It had all been hushed up, of course, by media relations. They issued a press release about a new virulent strain of Ebola, and enforced a quarantine area around the refugee camp. They had even issued a medal to Quaritch for expediting the sterilisation protocol and preventing the spread of the new disease.

Someone in the HR department in RDA Central back on Earth had fucked up big time.

Westin's interview with the new CO did not change his opinion in the slightest.

Quaritch didn't believe in parade rest – he had Westin standing at attention in front of his desk as though he was a defaulter at Captain's Mast.

"Sergeant Westin," said Quaritch, lifting up an old fashioned paper personnel jacket and dropping it on his desk. Westin refused to think of him as a Colonel – he was a disgrace to the rank, and to the Corps. "I've reviewed your jacket – it shows that you have maintained excellent efficiency ratings all through your career. Additionally, my briefing from the previous CO indicated that you were a man with useful skills and connections."

"I wouldn't know anything about that, sir," said Westin, staring straight ahead. He knew from previous encounters with officers of this type that no matter what he said, he was going to land in the biggest pool of runny shit in existence.

Quaritch nodded as though that was exactly the response he was expecting. "Well, I don't give a flying fuck what brown-nosing you did with the last CO. I'm in command now, and if I give you an order, you will enact that order without question. Is that clear, soldier?"

"Crystal clear, sir," replied Westin.

Some iota of his contempt for the man must have crept through his words as the prick got up from behind his desk, walked around and stood directly in front of Westin, their noses almost touching. What a stupid boot-camp trick, he thought.

"I said, is that clear, you blue-monkey loving pussy!" screamed Quaritch, his eyes bulging.

"Yes, sir," shouted Westin.

"Get the fuck out of my office, you dip-shit dickless wonder," snarled Quaritch. "Dismissed."

Westin spun on his heels and marched out of the office, pronto. He had to warn Grace about this psycho. He made double time up to the link room.

"Hey Max," he asked cheerfully. "Where is Grace?"

Max Patel pointed to link unit four and said, "You just missed her by five minutes. Do you want to give her a call?

"No," said Westin. No doubt Quaritch was already monitoring all communications – standard practice for a psychopath like him. "I'll talk to her when she gets back."

As the Marine left the link room, Max shook his head. The poor guy looked really disappointed at missing Grace. The mismatched pair was acting more like love-sick teenagers than adults.

* * *

He might as well see what shit duty he was pulling now., so Westin went down to the ready room to check out the duty roster.

It was as Westin thought – he had been rostered on to security detail for a geological survey team. Shit. He wouldn't see Grace for weeks, and they were due to ship out in only thirty minutes.

Quaritch really was a low bastard.

* * *

"My love?" asked Zha'nelle.

Mìnkxetse almost burst out laughing. It was clear from his mate's wheedling tone that she wanted something, and he wasn't going to like it. "What is it, Zha'nelle?" he responded, a glint in his eye. "Do you want to go back to the glade of the Tree of Voices tonight?" Perhaps he could derail her manipulations by making a counter-play.

Zha'nelle hesitated. That particular offer was tempting, very tempting indeed. Mìnkxetse was learning the game a little too quickly for her liking. "Yes," she said. "I mean no, not tonight, but later, very much."

Mìnkxetse pulled her to him and kissed her thoroughly, making her heart pound. When he finally released her, he asked, "Well, what do you want?"

"I want to follow the palulukan at night," she said. She saw him start to open his mouth to object, so she leapt in to stop his words. "I've learnt all I can by watching them by day," rushed Zha'nelle, almost as though she had drunk too much haw'naerftang again. "To learn more I must follow them at night – that's when they do most of their hunting."

"It will be very dangerous," said Mìnkxetse, frowning.

"You could come," she replied. "I will be safer if you are there, to watch my back."

He made a face. The last time he had accompanied her on palulukan watch she had insisted on investigating mounds of palulukan dung, picking out little fragments of undigested bone to try and identify what the vicious predators had been eating. "I will come, as long as there is no playing with palulukan shit," he answered.

"What's wrong with palulukan shit?" she asked defensively. "It is very important to understand what paluklukan eat, and looking at shit is one of the best ways to find out. It is a lot safer than examining the food when it goes in the palulukan."

"It smells really bad," he answered. "And it is sticky too." She had smelt strongly of palulukan for three days after that little effort. On their return to Kelutrel, Zha'nelle set off a stampede of the clan's pa'li, and she had to endure an extended dressing-down for her thoughtlessness from Eytukan.

Zha'nelle reluctantly conceded, "Well, yes it does smell bad. But it is very important."

Mìnkxetse loved the look on his mate's face when she was being very serious about her passion. "I hope you never to decide to investigate what I eat," he teased. "I really don't want to have to pull you out of the privy in front of the whole clan. Then you will smell even worse than palulukan shit."

Zha'nelle stamped her foot angrily. "Stop making fun of me. Looking at shit is very important when learning about an animal. Are you going to come with me or not?"

Mìnkxetse laughed, "I already agreed to come, my love. You weren't listening again."

"Oh," she said weakly, the wind taken out of her sails. "Tonight?" she asked hopefully.

"Tonight," he confirmed.


	25. Chapter 25

Westin was nervous. After two days travel from the advance base camp, the survey party was well inside Omaticaya land. The idiots running the show were just bulldozing a narrow track through everything. Grace had told him how the clans viewed the forest – to them it was holy, like a church. He wondered how the Pope would react to some redneck driving a bulldozer right through the middle of St Peter's. The phrase 'wrath of God' came to mind.

He looked back at a creek they had just crossed – it was already running brown with runoff rather than the crystal clear waters that similar watercourse displayed. The constant rain forecast for the next couple of weeks would turn these tracks into quagmires, and the watercourses they crossed into rivers of brown sludge.

The lead surveyor – a noob who knew fuck-all about Pandora – was talking back to his supervisor at Hell's Gate. Westin waited for him to finish his call before saying, "Are you deliberately trying to piss off the indigenous?"

"The colonel told me all about you, Westin," jibed the surveyor."You're one of those blue monkey lovers . Fuck off and let me do my job – if any of the smurfs make trouble for us, your job is to blow them away, not tell me how to do mine."

Westin shrugged. "It's your funeral," he replied. The ignorant dweeb was going to get them all killed.

* * *

"What is wrong, Grace?" asked Sylwanin curiously. The dreamwalker woman seemed distracted. "You are sad." She came early to the schoolhouse, before the children arrived from Kelutrel so that she could practice her 'Ìnglìsì, and find out more about the tawtute.

"Is it that obvious ?" chuckled Grace.

"Srane," said Sylwanin. "You look out into the forest and sigh, all day. Are you in love?"

"There is a man," admitted Grace.

"Pah!" snorted Sylwanin, indicating her general opinion of the male sex. "I knew it. Only a man could make such a disturbance in your spirit."

Grace sighed. "It is not like that," she replied. "We cannot love, for we cannot be together."

Sylwanin frowned. This she could not understand, for it was the simplest thing in the world. "If a man loves a woman, and she loves him, then Eywa will provide."

"For the Na'vi it is that simple," replied Grace. "It is much more complicated for humans." The young Na'vi woman looked confused, so she tried to explain. "He is not like me, not a teacher – he is a warrior."

"A warrior," said Sylwanin, impressed. "A warrior will make an honourable mate. You will make a good choice."

Grace smiled sadly. "It is much more complicated than that. Although he is tawtute, he is not a dreamwalker. So we cannot be together." The barriers to her relationship with Westin were a lot more complicated than what she was telling Sylwanin, that explanation was probably enough for now.

Sylwanin wrinkled her brow. She had seen tawtute soldiers on the kunsips that brought Grace to this place. They were so small, and she could not conceive how Grace could mate with one. They had no queue for tsahaylu. Still, her teacher's spirit was unbalanced, and she hated to see Grace unhappy. "Come," said Sylwanin, grabbing her hand and pulling her outside. "Come with me. I will show you something to make you happy."

* * *

High above the palulukan nest, Zha'nelle slept in the arms of her mate. It had been a long night tracking the deadly predators, and they had not returned to this place until just after dawn.

Zha'nelle stirred slightly, her dreams suddenly invaded by another presence.

"It is time," said the dream-spirit.

"Grandfather?" she thought. It was like him, and yet not.

"No, my child," smiled the dream-spirit. "I am not your Grandfather."

"What do you want of me?" asked Zha'nelle, oddly not afraid of this strange yet familiar presence. Zha'nelle then realised she had felt it before, hovering on the edge of her awareness all her life.

"It is time," the dream-spirit repeated. "The task you were born for awaits you."

Zha'nelle's eye flicked open. She slid out of Mìnkxetse's embrace, taking care not to wake him, slipped her bow over her body, and without a backward glance rapidly descended to the ground.

* * *

Mìnkxetse was cold. He tried to clasp his mate closer to him, so that he could enjoy the warmth of her body. When he found his arms were empty, he snapped awake. "Zha'nelle," he called out softly. There was no answer.

He looked about him and saw that her bow was gone. Fear gripped his heart, and he looked down at the ground. What he saw horrified him. He wanted to cry out, but could not, for fear of endangering his mate.

Zha'nelle stood before one of the palulukan, gazing into its open eyes. Her clear voice rang out, unafraid, carrying her words through the forest to his ears, "Oe kin ne makto nga ma'tsmuke."

To Mìnkxetse's amazement, the palulukan dipped its head to Zha'nelle, and she leapt onto its back, mounting the evil beast and forming the bond as though it was a pa'li, and not the most feared predator in the embrace of Eywa. In a blink of the eye the palulukan exploded into movement, heading in the direction of Kelutrel. She was gone.


	26. Chapter 26

"This is Utral Aymokriyä, a very sacred place," said Sylwanin.

The Tree of Voices, translated Grace. Why would a tree have a voice? She looked about at the grove at the many willow-like trees in the grove, their strange white fronds dangling down to the ground. She had not seen this species of tree before, but then there was so much of Pandoran plant-life that was unknown to the human taxonomic database.

Sylwanin continued, "The best time is to come at night, when one can see the blessing of Eywa. But you cannot wait, for at night you leave us."

To Grace's astonishment, Sylwanin took up her queue and allowed the tendrils to interlace around one of the fronds. The young woman shut her eyes, a reverent expression appearing on her face. She murmured, "The voices of our ancestors are carried here by Eywa, and bring us counsel."

Her eyes opening, Sylwanin gazed gently at Grace, and said, "Join with Eywa, Grace. She will heal your turmoil and pain."

Grace hesitated. Was this the right thing to do? As a scientist, all her training was directed at remaining separate from facts, of not becoming emotionally involved. But this, this would be linking her brain with another life-form – even though it was a plant, not an animal. Reluctantly, her hands took her braid and linked it with the willow frond.

Many Na'vi voices erupted into her brain, calling out to Grace, laughing and joyous. In surprise, she moved to snatch her queue away, but Sylwanin placed a gentle hand on her forearm. "Our ancestors – they live within Eywa, Grace. No-one is lost or forgotten."

They stood there, listening to the voices of the dead with a sense of wonder – until the voices suddenly stopped.

Sylwanin hissed, "Something is wrong." She jerked her queue away from the frond, breaking tsahaylu, and scanned the grove. "Look!" she said, pointing at the small watercourse that ran through the grove. Instead of running crystal clear like almost every stream Grace had seen, it was a muddy, dirty brown, an oily film smearing the surface of the water. "Someone defiles Utral Aymokriyä. Come, Grace. We must stop this." Sylwanin unslung her bow, carrying it in one hand, and started to run along the banks of the stream, searching for the source of the pollution.

Seeing no other option, Grace unlinked her queue and followed the Na'vi woman.

* * *

Zha'nelle gripped the palulukan with her knees and hands as though her life depended on it. The speed of this animal was incredible – the trees of the forest whizzed past in a blur. But it wasn't just the speed, it was the sudden leapts to left or right as it avoided obstacles, and the bounding over fallen forest giants that prompted her of hold on tight. The palulukan was running almost as fast as an ikran could fly in level flight.

In all the time she had studied these beasts, she had never seen the speed and power of a palulukan exerted to their full extent. It was awe-inspiring. It was addictive. It was wonderful.

She was acutely aware of its every movement through the bond of tsahaylu, which made it easier – or rather possible – to maintain her precarious seat. More than anything, though, she was aware of the razor-sharp focus of the mind of the palulukan. It was like the perfect machine, stripped down to the essence of a single thought, a ferocious intent, more like the slim curving edge of a katana before the fatal blow than any living creature.

It would be easy for Zha'nelle to lose herself in the sheer exhilaration of linking with a palulukan.

No, not easy. Dangerous.

* * *

The hair on the back of Westin's neck was prickling, despite the rain pouring off his helmet. He saw the danger his sixth sense was warning him of – a puff-ball tree, and its deadly fruit looked very ripe. The dozer had only narrowly missed the bastard plant. The damn things could be set off by body heat when they were that ripe.

"Stop!" he ordered over his throat-mike. "Off the track! Now!" He was already following his own advice.

A couple of the soldiers turned towards him in surprise, but that was all they had time for. A Na'vi arrow flashed across through the air and embedded itself in the trunk of the puff-ball tree, exploding all its fruit from the sudden shock. The razor sharp seeds sprayed like a claymore mine, embedding themselves in the flesh of every member of the survey party except Westin, accompanied by a wave of chlorine gas.

"Contact!" yelled Westin. Automatically his thumb flicked the safety catch of to full auto, taking aim back along the direction of flight. His warning-cry was of no avail, as every member of his Sec-ops squad was rolling on the ground, screaming, as the chlorine gas dissolved in their rain-soaked clothes, turning instantly into hydrochloric acid and burning their skin.

A Na'vi woman stepped out from cover, aiming an arrow directly at him. "Leave!" she commanded in heavily accentled English. "This land of Omaticaya – tawtute defiles forest. Leave or die."

Westin hesitated. He knew they should not be here, and every member of the squad other than himself was out of action. Who knows how many were in cover. If he returned fire, everyone could die. Then, another Na'vi woman stepped out of cover, but she was not in native costume. "Grace?" he asked in amazement, involuntarily lowering his weapon.

"So this is the man," said the Na'vi woman with the bow, slipping the arrow from the bowstring. "You are right, Grace. He is warrior – the only one not stupid enough to walk near fruiting rumut."

Grace said, "Westin? What are you doing here? Don't you know where you are?"

"Following orders, Grace," said Westin. "I know we are well within Omaticaya lands. I tried talking them out of it, to no avail. The fuckers won't listen to me, not with our shithead of a new CO. Apparently I'm a Na'vi sympathiser now."

"Shit," swore Grace. She had not expected this to happen so quickly.

The bulldozer kept on moving on, oblivious to the action that had just occurred. Sylwanin announced, "I will destroy machine. If wounded taken to healer now, most will survive."

"Just a moment," said Westin, raising his hand to his throat mike. "Hell's Gate tower, this is Westin. Requesting medevac for survey party from current location." There was a long pause. "Yes, there was a Na'vi attack. No deaths, at least for now. Yes, the entire party. Puff-ball explosion. Westin out."

"You're lucky you didn't shoot Sylwanin," said Grace, in her normal matter-of-fact voice. "She is the eldest daughter of the olo'eyktan and Tsahik of the Omaticaya."

"Fuck," whispered Westin. Perhaps his crappy luck was holding out. If he had shot the young woman, his ass would have been toast. The Na'vi would make sure that he would die.

Smoke and flames could be seen rising from the bulldozer, and the distant roar of the engine died. It seemed Sylwanin had not taken long to stop the destructive machine from continuing to scar the forest.

Westin said, "Get out of here, Grace. Take the chief's daughter, and get away. I'll take care of the wounded until the choppers get here. If you're still here when they arrive, the shit will really hit the fan."

Grace nodded. It was good advice. If the new Sec-ops commanding officer was as bad as Westin said, she could have difficulty arguing her way out ofa charge of complicity to destroy RDA assets. She whirled about, and ran off toward the burning dozer, calling out, "Sylwanin!"

"How the fuck am I going to get out of this one?" murmured Westin, as soon as she was clear.

No-one answered his rhetorical question.


	27. Chapter 27

Four choppers landed on the muddy track, engines roaring. Westin had only expected two – that was all that was needed to dust-off the casualties, and he wondered why so many had been sent. His curiosity was satisfied when he had an 'oh fuck' moment – Colonel Quaritch was the first man out.

"Sergeant Westin!" yelled Quaritch over the noise of the chopper turbines. "What the fuck happened here? Why the fuck are my men being evacced?"

Westin tried not to sigh. "I observed a fruiting puff-ball tree there, sir," he reported, pointing to the denuded tree, "And ordered the patrol to divert around it. Before they could comply, a Na'vi shot an arrow from cover and set off the puff-ball tree. I was the only member of the patrol outside the blast area."

"Puff-ball tree?" demanded Quaritch, as the wounded were being loaded into two of the choppers.

"A form of plant life with explosive seed pods," answered Westin. "A ripe fruit will explode, embedding seeds in any nearby animal, and releasing a wave of chlorine gas. If treated rapidly, the wounds are survivable, but otherwise any individual so wounded will die from poisoning within two days. It is a method of plant reproduction that ensures that seedlings have nutrients supplied by a corpse when they take root."

"Why the fuck didn't you warn anyone?" yelled Quaritch. "Are you a fucking incompetent as well as a smurf fucker?"

"Because, sir, I wasn't the stupid fuck who put a nooby in charge of a patrol of noobies," shouted Westin. "Corporal Wainfleet might have many sterling qualities, but he knows dick about Pandora – and the fuckwit posted me as ass-end Charlie. He took great pleasure in telling me that it was under your explicit instructions that I should hold that post, and from that position I did not have good visibility of the threat."

Westin knew very well that ass-end Charlie was the most likely to be a casualty in an ambush. Clearly, Quaritch wanted him dead. Now he expected to be up on a charge of insolence and abusing an officer, but he didn't care. It would just mean time in the stockade. But then Quaritch surprised him.

"Give me your weapon," ordered Quaritch.

Westin unslung his GS-221 30-cal LMG, and handed it to the bastard. Quaritch efficiently ejected the magazines and cleared the chambers for both the grenade launcher and the gun, showing that he was familiar with the weapon. He sniffed the barrel and said, "You did not fire your weapon, Sergeant Westin. Why did you not return fire? Are you lacking in offensive spirit?"

"The Na'vi woman who fired the arrow I identified as the daughter of the chieftain of the Omaticaya," replied Westin. "As I have been under orders to maintain good relations with the local indigenous, and she did not offer any further hostile action, I used my judgement to not return fire, as I believed it was more important to safeguard the lives of the wounded than initiate hostilities with the Omaticaya. She advised that there would be no further action other than the destruction of the dozer if we removed ourselves from Omaticaya territory. There were no countermanding instructions in the current rules of engagement."

Fuck you, Quaritch, thought Westin.

Quaritch threw the weapon back at Westin, and growled, "Get in the fucking chopper, smurf-lover." He dropped the magazines and spare rounds on the muddy ground, making Westin swear under his breath as he dug them out of the mud. He would have to clean and dry the magazines before he could fire the weapon again. Quaritch really was a nasty piece of work.

The two medivac hoppers had already lifted off, so he grabbed a seat in one that Quaritch was not occupying. After the two machines took off, Westin was so busy removing the mud from his magazines and ammo, he did not notice the heading the chopper was taking. Nor did he realise that he did not recognise one single soldier in the chopper.

* * *

"There are going to be consequences," said Grace. "The sky-people will be angry that you wounded their men and destroyed the bulldozer."

Sylwanin snapped, "They should not have come here. Their machine was killing the forest."

It was clear that Sylwanin did not want to hear any criticism of her actions, so Grace did not say anything else all the way back to the schoolhouse. There was noise from inside the building – the children had clearly arrived, and were busy playing some game. As the two women walked up the steps, Grace said, "I will talk to the leader of the sky-people, and tell him of your anger."

"Good," replied Sylwanin.

"Sylwanin!" cried out Ney'tiri, throwing herself at her sister.

"Oof," said Sylwanin, as she pretended to be knocked to the ground. "Why are you making so much noise?"

The children were making so much noise that no-one heard the approaching choppers.

* * *

Westin looked up as the Samson flared for landing. What the fuck were they doing at the schoolhouse LZ? A bad feeling started to rise from his toes.

"Out!" yelled the pilot as the chopper's skids touched the ground. The soldiers poured out onto the ground and established a loose perimeter as the choppers lifted off immediately, but there was not threat evident.

Westin went up to Quaritch and asked, "Colonel, why are we here? This is the LZ for the schoolhouse."

"Very appropriate," replied Quaritch, "We are here to teach the smurfs a lesson. They cannot attack my men and damage equipment with impunity."

"Colonel, I object," snarled Westin. "There are children here. Innocent children."

Quaritch pulled out his Wasp revolver and fired a shot into Westin's chest. He staggered back two steps, astonished that he had been shot, and tried to raise his LMG to return fire. Quaritch fired another two shots, not missing, and Westin fell to his knees. He struggled to raise his weapon again, but failed as Quaritch pumped the remaining three shots into the soldier, who finally slumped to the ground.

"Your objection has been noted, Sergeant Westin," said Quaritch, as he broke open the revolver, shook out the brass and replaced them with fresh cartridges. "Fucking smurf lover."

As death claimed Westin, he had only one thought. Why the fuck hadn't he just shot the prick?

* * *

"What was that?" asked Grace. She thought she had heard gunshots.

"What was what?" replied Sylwanin from under a pile of children.

"Gunshots," said Grace. "Children, quiet," she ordered. "Stay on the floor."

She walked outside, to be confronted with a line of soldiers aiming their weapons at the schoolhouse. "What the fuck are you doing?" she demanded.

"Doctor Augustine," said the officer in charge calmly. "If you would stand aside, I have a lesson to teach the blue monkeys."

Grace's eyes narrowed, and she clenched her fists. This must be the new colonel that Westin had warned her about. "You must be Colonel Quaritch," said Grace. There was no fucking way she was going to allow him to commit an atrocity against Na'vi children.

The colonel sighed. "If you would stand aside, Doctor Augustine," he said. "I have a job to do."

"No," she said.

He shrugged, and said, "Shoot her."

One of the soldiers fired a three round burst, hitting Grace in the shoulder. She spun around and fell to the ground. The wound felt as though an icy cold red hot poker had been shoved into her flesh.

Sylwanin had been standing in the shadow of the doorway , an arrow nocked on her bow. She screamed, "Grace!" She stepped out into the balcony for a clear shot and loosed the shaft, hitting the soldier who had fired at Grace squarely in the chest. The shock of the lethal blow killed him instantly, flinging his dead body back at least ten feet. Sylwanin already had another arrow strung as the firing line opened up, hitting her in the torso at least ten times. She crashed to the ground, still alive, as the soldiers continued to pour fire into the schoolhouse, heedless of the screaming children. Sylwanin's arrow soared into the air and fell harmlessly into the forest.

* * *

Zha'nelle heard automatic rifle fire coming from the direction of the schoolhouse. A single thought crystallised in her mind, signalling her intent to the palulukan. She gripped her knees even tighter as she released her hands from the palulukan's queues and nocked an arrow.

The palulukan roared as she charged into the clearing, Zha'nelle screaming the Na'vi war-cry, "Ìley!"

She took her shot as the palulukan attacked the first of the ten men in the firing line. Her arrow smashed into the head of the tawtute furthest away, scattering his brains in a pink-grey mist. The palulukan swung one of its paws, smashing a tawtute the length of the clearing into a tree, a broken branch penetrating his gut as he hung upside down, like a carcass in a slaughterhouse. The body wriggled once or twice, and then stopped moving.

The palulukan grabbed the next man by the head, and threw him into the forest. It then sprang again, crushing another four soldiers under its claws before they could reorient their firing towards the new threat. Zha'nelle had managed to draw another arrow and took a shot, killing a second soldier – and the remaining three all had empty magazines and were trying to reload.

Ney'tiri had run out onto the balcony as soon as the firing stopped. The young girl stooped to pick up Sylwanin's bow and an arrow, and managed to draw it, aiming for the back of the closest tawtute. She loosed the shaft, hitting the man squarely between the shoulder blades, killing him instantly. There were two left - both were too close for bowshot, so Zha'nelle dropped her bow, drew her knife and threw it, transfixing a soldier in the throat. He sank to the ground, finger tightening on the trigger and spraying a full magazine into the air.

The palulukan's head snaked out like a striking cobra, its jaws wide open. It snatched up the last soldier standing. He screamed briefly until the jaws of the palulukan closed, the sound of shattering bone making Zha'nelle flinch. Suddenly, the clearing was quiet, expect for the whimpering of the children inside the schoolhouse. Zha'nelle leapt off the back of the palulukan and ran to the steps of the schoolhouse, screaming, "Grace!"

The dreamwalker was trying to get up, and swearing under her breath. "I'm ok," she gasped, when patently she wasn't. "The children..."

Zha'nelle hesitated when she saw Ney'tiri kneeling over her sister, but went inside. Five of the children were wounded, but none seriously.

* * *

"Sylwanin," whispered Ney'tiri. "What do I do?" There was blood everywhere, and her sister's body was trembling from the agony of her wounds.

"I am dying," said Sylwanin, a bloody froth filling her mouth blurring her words "You know what you have to do." She fumbled for her knife, and pressed it into Ney'tiri's right hand.

"I can't," said Ney'tiri, tears spilling from her eyes.

"You must, my warrior sister," said Sylwanin. She tried to smile, showing her blood-stained teeth., but coughed, blood splattering over her chest. "Let me sit up."

Somehow, Sylwanin struggled up to a sitting position, her back resting against one of the posts supporting the roof of the schoolhouse. She smiled again, and said, "Ney'tiri, take my necklace. Wear it always, for me." Sylwanin tried to reach for the necklace with the green stone, but could not do any more. Ney'tiri nodded, and took the necklace from her sister's neck, and placed it about her own. Sylwanin's mouth twitched, attempting to smile and be brave for her sister, but failing. She whispered, "Do it." She was sinking fast.

Ney'tiri took up Sylwanin's knife again, and held it ready, under her sister's rib cage. She said, "Nga yawne lu oer."

Sylwanin's last words were, "Eywa ngahu, Ney'tiri."

Ney'tiri plunged the knife into Sylwanin's chest, directly into her heart, and twisted it savagely. The breath rattled in Sylwanin's throat, and then every muscle relaxed, as she slipped into death. Weeping freely, Ney'tiri spoke the ancient words, "Oeru txoa livu, ma oeyä tsmuke. Hu nawma sa'nok tivul ngeyä tirea. Oeru txoa livu, Sylwanin te Tskaha Mo'at'ite."

* * *

Quaritch came to with a start. The black thing had thrown his body deep into the forest, landing on a soft moss bed. Despite the landing, the force of the impact had knocked him out. He reached for his throat mike, and transmitted. "Quaritch. Immediate evac, schoolhouse LZ."

His hand brushed the right side of his head, and came away bloody. Scalp wounds always looked worse than they really were. It was time to exfiltrate.

* * *

Zha'nelle had finished dressing the wounds of the children inside, so she came out, to find Ney'tiri kneeling alongside the dead body of her sister, holding a bloody knife in her hand. She knelt alongside Ney'tiri and said, "Forgive me, Ney'tiri. I was too late to save her."

The young girl nodded, and looked out at the palulukan tearing up the corpses of the tawtute soldiers, and eating them. "It is good that they find no resting place other than the belly of the beast," she said viciously.

Her words were followed by the roar of a chopper doing a fast extraction. It looked like one got away – the one the palulukan threw into the forest.

Zha'nelle went to embrace the sister of her dead friend, but she shook free and stood, Sylwanin's blood dripping slowly from her knife as she gazed up at the chopper flying away. She cried out, "Ne aytsmuke reypay, nìwotx tawtute zene terkup."

To swear on the blood of her own sister – that was a binding oath, thought Zha'nelle. A terrible oath to swear so young, committing Ney'tiri to slay every tawtute. Zha'nelle could say nothing, for if it was her sister lying in a pool of her own blood, she would do the same.

Ney'tiri turned to Zha'nelle and said, "I do not mean you, Zha'nelle. You are Omaticaya, both by Eywa's will and your actions." She walked over to Grace, who was sitting on the step, applying pressure to her gunshot wounds, and said, "You must go. Call the kunsip and leave. Never come back."

Grace was about to object, when Ney'tiri looked coldly at Grace and said, "If you had not come here, my sister would still be alive. The Omaticaya have learnt all we require of the tawtute – we need you no longer, Grace Augustine." That a young girl could speak with such a chilly voice, and with such command – it raised the hackles on Grace's neck.

Zha'nelle said, "Ney'tiri is right, Grace. I will help you walk there."

* * *

As it turned out, Zha'nelle carried Grace most of the way to the LZ. They found Westin's body lying in bloodstained grass, an expression of surprise on his face, and six bullet wounds clear in his torso. Grace bent down to touch the dead soldier's face, and said quietly, "Westin must have tried to stop Quaritch. I heard the shots."

Zha'nelle said solemnly, "The Omaticaya will honour this man. He shall not return to Hell's Gate."

"Good," said Grace. Westin would appreciate that – particularly that a man of war would be honoured for trying to save lives, rather than take them. He would have thought it a wonderful joke.

Samson One-Six flew in to the LZ insanely fast, pretty much like normal for Trudy Chacon. Zha'nelle loaded Grace into the cargo area, and strapped her in. She cracked open the trauma kit to apply a compression bandage to Grace's wound. She only said one thing to the dreamwalker. "I do not think we will meet again, Grace. Eywa ngahu." Zha'nelle got out of the chopper, picked up Westin's body, and walked away. She did not look back.

As Samson One-Six took off, Trudy asked, "What the hell happened?"

Grace said one word. It was enough. "Quaritch."

"Figures," replied Trudy laconically, "The man is a psycho." She paused for a momentand said, "That Na'vi woman. She looked a little like Janelle Manitowabi's Avatar. Do you think...?"

"Probably a conincidence," Grace replied. Some coincidence. Just as well Trudy hadn't got a good look at Zha'nelle's hands or feet. "The source DNA for the Avatars had to come from somewhere. Perhaps she was related to the source."

Yeah, sure, thought Trudy. She could have sworn that was Janelle's Avatar, but if Grace wanted to lie about it, she must have her reasons. Trudy wasn't going to say anything to any of the RDA fuckers.

"I'm going to unlink now," said Grace. "I have to get back to Hell's Gate before the other chopper."

"Ok," said Trudy. "See you back there."


	28. Chapter 28

The palulukan was gone by the time Zha'nelle returned to the schoolhouse clearing, and half the Omaticaya clan appeared to have arrived, armed to the teeth. It struck Zha'nelle that the Na'vi were very unlike her story-book memories of humans – instead of their being a cacophony of noise of screaming parents and sobbing children, there was almost dead silence. Instead, the concern of the parents was expressed by touch, the adults reassuring themselves that their children were still alive by holding them close.

Mo'at and Eytukan were kneeling by Sylwanin's body, Ney'tiri standing by with one hand on her mother's shoulder. Mo'at was weeping quietly, while Eytukan's face was set like stone, almost expressionless until one looked into his eyes. There rested the anguish of a father, grieving for what should never be – the death of the most precious thing in the world.

Eytukan rose to his feet, demanding of Zha'nelle, "Why do you carry the body of a tawtute? They have no honour, to attack children."

Zha'nelle answered, "This man died trying to prevent this thing. He may have been tawtute, but he acted with honour. If his body was returned to the tawtute, they would spit on his honour."

The olo'eyktan was silent for some time, considering his word. He inclined his head and said, "What is this man's name?"

"Westin," she answered.

"Westin may be buried in a place of honour, to become part of Eywa," said Eytukan. There was a murmur of agreement from the gathered Na'vi. Their olo'eyktan may have been grieving for his daughter, but he was still leading the clan wisely. "My daughter has spoken to the uniltìranyu Grace, telling her that no tawtute or uniltìranyu is to return to the lands of the Omaticaya. Westin is the last tawtute to be guest of this clan." He paused, as though in thought, before continuing, "Although she is a child, in this matter she speaks with my voice."

There was another undercurrent of agreement, which was interrupted by Zha'nelle. Many of the Omaticaya turned angrily towards her as she said, "Olo'eyktan, you are wrong. Ney'tiri te Tskaha Mo'at'ite is a child no longer, she is warrior. When Sylwanin fell wounded to death, Ney'tiri took up her sister's bow and slew one of the tawtute, and granted her sister the blow of grace when Sylwanin asked it of her. These are no actions of a child."

Eytukan turned to face his daughter. "Why did you not speak of this?"

"It was not important," said Ney'tiri. "If not for Zha'nelle, all here would have died. She was palulukan makto, bearing the wrath of Eywa against the tawtute."

Mo'at looked up sharply at her daughter's words, and despite her grief rose gracefully to her feet. "It seems that the Omaticaya has gained two warriors on this day of sorrow."

* * *

Grace burst into Parker Selfridge's office. "Do you know what that myrmidon did?" she shouted.

"Nice to see you too, Grace," said Selfridge. "Did we have a meeting scheduled now? I don't recollect seeing one on my calendar."

"Quaritch shot up the school," she snarled, ignoring his disdain. "He killed the chieftain's daughter, and wounded five of the children."

"They are very serious accusations to make against a senior RDA employee," said Selfridge. "Can you substantiate them?"

She wanted to wring the pencil-pusher's neck, but somehow she managed to calm herself down. Grace said, "He shot and wounded my Avatar. It's being flown in now on Samson One-Six."

Suddenly, Selfridge looked concerned. Avatars cost a lot of money, and to have one damaged or destroyed would require reams of paperwork. "I see," he said. "That is serious – very serious. I hope it is repairable."

"I think so," replied Grace. She took a deep breath, and conveyed the worst news. "The Omaticaya have banished us from their lands, because of Quaritch's actions, and the damage the survey party made to the forest – that you sent in. That's a huge area we won't be able to access."

"Hmmm," he said. "I shall have to discuss this matter with Colonel Quaritch when he returns to Hells' Gate." He glanced up at the clock on the wall. "That should be in about thirty minutes, according to his last transmission."

"You mean he isn't dead?" demanded Grace, her voice rising almost to a shriek.

"Grace, I will deal with this," said Selfridge firmly. "You go and make sure the Avatar gets fixed."

Her hands clenched into fists, wanting to strike out at this corporate stuffed-shirt, but she could not. He held the budget for the entire Avatar program, and if Grace did anything to endanger it, she could lose everything. She left Selfridge's office in much the same state as she entered it.

* * *

Colonel Quaritch closed the door behind him and leant against it, looking down at the man behind the desk. Selfridge found his presence intimidating – he killed people for a living. Keeping him under control was going to be difficult. The raw looking scars on his head under their transparent dressings made him look even more of a bastard.

"Doctor Augustine made some interesting accusations against you, Colonel," said the administrator.

The soldier shrugged. "I was undertaking reprisals against the indigenous for wounding the survey party and destroying a bulldozer," he said. "If the natives don't fear us, then you won't be able to dig rocks out of the ground. I thought we had agreed on that as our new direction."

"You lost eleven men, and you wounded an Avatar," said Selfridge. "That will cause some difficulties. It hardly demonstrates an effective strategy."

"The casualties were sustained due to an animal attack – a thanator, I believe it was called," said Quaritch. "Unfortunate, yes, but I understand these things happen all the time on Pandora. You won't find any bodies, either – I expect they will already have been eaten by the beast."

"What about the Avatar?" demanded Selfridge.

"I wouldn't worry about that," answered Quaritch. He removed a hard copy photograph from one pocket and slid it across the desk. "This was the last image transmitted from one of the cameras on the dozer that the Na'vi destroyed." The image showed a female Avatar in a Stanford top and khaki shorts running towards a Na'vi in native dress. "You might want to ask Doctor Augustine what she was doing there."

Selfridge commented, "That puts a very different complexion on things, Colonel Quaritch." He sighed. Grace wouldn't be able to do a thing about the Colonel if he held that image over her head. Only one good thing had come out of this incident. The survey instruments on the dozer had confirmed the results of the preliminary aerial survey – there was a huge mother lode of unobtanium under the village of the natives. The Hell's Gate mine would be played out in five years time, and they needed another mine site. This was closer than any other commercial quantity of ore they had found., and the projected returns were by far the best available.

Then again, perhaps it wasn't all bad. He looked at Quaritch, assessing the possible courses of action. If the blue monkeys wouldn't move, perhaps he had the perfect instrument at hand to get rid of the problem. It wouldn't matter if the smurfs were hostile or not.

He looked at Quaritch again.

Selfridge was right - a very blunt instrument.

* * *

That night, after both Sylwanin and the tawtute Westin were laid to rest, Mo'at spoke to Eytukan in the Tsahik's alcove. She had spoken to him before of the message that Zha'nelle had carried from Eywa, the words that the former dreamwalker had spoken in the trance of Uniltaron.

"There will be war," said Mo'at. "The tawtute will come again. I understand now the message that Zha'nelle brought. Our daughter's blood is the proof."

"Do you know when?" he asked.

"No," she answered. "We must wait for the enemy who is broken. When he comes, we will know."


	29. Chapter 29

In the years that followed, Zha'nelle never again tried to ride a palulukan. In her heart of hearts, she knew that the predator that carried her to the schoolhouse clearing would most likely kill her – it had only been with the intervention of Eywa that the insane ride had been possible.

That realisation did not stop her from learning more about palulukan. She followed the palulukan at night, learning more of them than any Na'vi before. Zha'nelle only stopped her obsession when she fell pregnant, if only to keep Mìnkxetse happy. To keep herself busy, she tried to make songs of her knowledge of the palulukan, but found she had no talent for songmaking whatsoever. A friend of Ney'tiri's – Ninat – took Zha'nelle's knowledge and turned it into wonderful teaching songs.

Ninat also made another song called 'Palulukan Makto', but Zha'nelle did not like to hear it sung. It reminded her that she had been too late to save her friend Sylwanin from the guns of the tawtute, and made her both sad and angry. Whenever that song was sung, Zha'nelle would leave the gathering of the clan, and sit alone with her pain. After a while, the clan saw the distress it caused Zha'nelle and stopped singing the song. Many said it was a shame, for the song was wonderful – a combination of exciting, beautiful and sad.

After the birth of her daughter, Zha'nelle sought out her sister Kalinkey, and asked to be taught the way of the healer. She knew that she could no longer stalk palulukan – not if she was to be a good mother, unlike her own. She wanted to learn a skill that would keep her close to her daughter, yet still be useful to the clan. After a time Zha'nelle became proficient in the art of easing muscles and aligning bones, although she never mastered the other parts of the healing craft. Many sought her out in preference to Kalinkey, due to the skill and strength of her five-fingered hands, although none teased her for her origins – not even Tsu'tey, who Zha'nelle did not like, and who returned her disdain in equal part.

The entire clan knew that she had been touched by Eywa in that crazy ride to save the children from the tawtute. They respected her even more that she did not boast of that day.

Ney'tiri grew quickly, looking very like her dead sister. She too became taronyu, and the best archer in the clan, just like Sylwanin had been, even though Ney'tiri was being trained to be Tsahik after her mother. She also developed a temper as hot as that of Sylwanin, somewhat to the dismay of Mo'at, and spent much of the time alone in the forest, tracking and killing tawtute.

It disturbed Zha'nelle that Ney'tiri was to be mated to Tsu'tey, even though she knew it was traditional for the future olo'eyktan to mate with the future Tsahik. There was no affection between them, only respect - the respect of one warrior for another. It was not fertile ground for a good mating. She had thought of voicing her concerns to Mo'at, but decided against it. It seemed to Zha'nelle that Eywa would not permit such a mating to take place, no matter what the customs said.

She had not even voiced her concerns with Mìnkxetse, despite him being the centre of her life and the source of her joy – at least until her daughter was born, when he was abruptly displaced from his throne. He took his demotion philosophically, holding that now he possessed the two most beautiful females in the clan, instead of just the one. His brother Tsawlontu accused him of surrendering to the tyranny of women. Mìnkxetse laughed, and pointed out that Zha'nelle never threw pots at his head, so perhaps Tsawlontu still had much to learn about women.

Zha'nelle still hunted and flew her ikran, although not as much as before – her daughter kept her very busy. There was little time for introspection, and the memories that she had of once walking as a tawtute slowly dimmed, along with the display of her data tablet that remained untouched in her old tawtute kit bag that hung from her p'ah s'ivil chey.

Her life was mostly happy and sometimes sad, and so it remained until the uniltìranyu called Jake Sully came to the Omaticaya.

In all that time, Mo'at never told Zha'nelle of the words she spoke in the trance of Uniltaron. It fell to another to tell her.

* * *

Zha'nelle was kneeling by Sylwanin's grave, heavily pregnant with her child, tears running down her face. "Forgive me," she murmured, as she brushed dead leaves away from the grave, allowing the flowers blooming there to bask in the sunlight.

"What is there to forgive?" said a voice from behind her.

The voice sounded so much like Sylwanin that Zha'nelle almost rose up into the air in fright. She turned to see Ney'tiri standing there, leaning on her bow. It was not just her voice that reminded Zha'nelle strongly of Sylwanin, now she was fully grown."It is my fault your sister is dead," answered Zha'nelle. "I arrived too late to save her."

The sight of Zha'nelle grieving for Sylwanin touched Ney'tiri's hard heart. "It is not your fault, Zha'nelle. Eywa herself told us that." She moved to touch Zha'nelle reassuringly.

"What do you mean?" Zha'nelle was puzzled by Ney'tiri's words.

"Did not my mother tell you of the 'Ìnglìsì words you spoke in Uniltaron?" asked Ney'tiri. She looked surprised when Zha'nelle shook her head. "They were sent by Eywa herself. I have never forgotten them." She closed her eyes and began to recite.

"_...For ride, ride she must, yet too late to save..."_

Ney'tiri stopped the English words, and smiled at the grieving woman. "You see. Sylwanin's death was foretold by Eywa. There was nothing that you could do to save her. But you did save the children of the Omaticaya."

"Irayo," smiled Zha'nelle bitterly. "You are kind to tell me of this, but still will I grieve for my sister of the tsumuke'awsiteng, and believe there was something more that I could have done."

Now it was Ney'tiri's turn to be surprised. "I am sorry, Zha'nelle. I knew that you were friends with my sister, but not that you joined with her in the circle. She did not talk to me of such matters." Ney'tiri smiled in remembrance. "I was her annoying little sister."

"After I mated with Mìnkxetse," said Zha'nelle quietly, "Sylwanin and Kalinkey asked a stranger to the Omaticaya to join their circle." She held up one five-fingered hand. "They did not care that I was different, and I loved them both dearly, just as I still love Kalinkey." She fell silent for a short while, and then asked, "I wish to name my daughter Sylwanin, if you do not object."

"Are you sure you bear a girl?" asked Ney'tiri. Sometimes Eywa told a woman what sex her child would be, but this was rare.

"Yes," answered Zha'nelle, her voice firm.

Tears sprang to Ney'tiri's eyes at the thought of this woman loving her sister so much and wanting to honour her memory with the naming of her first-born. "I would be honoured by your name choice," said Ney'tiri. She drew Zha'nelle to her feet and kissed her on the cheek. "Come," she said. "I wish to ask my mother why you have been allowed to grieve, without the knowledge of your own words."

* * *

"Ma sa'nok," said Ney'tiri, addressing her mother. "I wish to ask a question."

Mo'at looked with slight distaste at the pregnant Zha'nelle, wondering why she was here in the alcove of the Tsahik. The woman only ever brought trouble. "Of course, Ney'tiri," she answered, smiling at her daughter. "Ask, although I cannot promise an answer."

"Why have you never told Zha'nelle of the words she spoke at Uniltaron?" asked Ney'tiri. "She deserves to hear them."

The smile on the face of the Tsahik disappeared instantly. "No," snapped Mo'at. "She does not."

"Why not?" pushed Ney'tiri. "Zha'nelle mourns my sister, believing it her fault that Sylwanin died."

"It is her fault," snarled Mo'at, her normally calm face twisted with hatred and fury. Zha'nelle began to see from where both Sylwanin and Ney'tiri inherited their tempers. "She consorted with the evil ones, the palulukan, and joined with one, even choosing one as her totem animal. Zhan'nelle was corrupted by them, allowing Sylwanin to die. I wish she had never come here. She is evil!"

Ney'tiri's eyes flared with the light of battle, and she drew breath to disagree, but Zha'nelle spoke first. "I am sorry, Mo'at," she said quietly. "I did not choose this life, though I was thankful that the Omaticaya gave me a home when no others would. If you wish it, I will leave now."

"I do so wish it," grated Mo'at.

"No!" shouted Ney'tiri, clenching her fists and her ears lying back, spoiling for a fight.

Zha'nelle placed a restraining hand on the young woman's arm. "No, Ney'tiri," she said. "I will not be the cause of division between mother and daughter. I will not..." Zha'nelle's voice trailed off, mother and daughter turning in surprise to her, to see her eyes vacant, staring off into the distance.

_ Broken enemies, one yang, other yin,  
__ People will reject, then claim as true kin._

"...allow it," Zha'nelle finished, totally unaware that she had recited words in 'Ìnglìsì in a strange voice, sounding more like a tawtute than a Na'vi. Mother and daughter had heard that voice once before. "Eywa ngahu," she said sadly, and turned to leave.

"Wait," commanded Mo'at. "You spoke of broken enemies, in 'Ìnglìsì – not one, but two. What means this?"

"I said no tawtute words," replied Zha'nelle, turning back to gaze in puzzlement at the desperate look in the Tsahik's eyes.

There was an awed expression on Ney'tiri's face. "Zha'nelle bears the gift of prophecy," she whispered.

Zha'nelle barked in ironic laughter. "I hope not," she said. "In all the songs prophets come to a poor end."

"You may stay," said Mo'at reluctantly. Zha'nelle could tell that saying those words was like pulling her own teeth.

"Irayo," said Zha'nelle abruptly, and left the alcove. She knew when she was not wanted.

Ney'tiri glared at her mother. "You are cruel to one who does not deserve it," she said. "I will tell Zha'nelle of the words, if you will not."

Mo'at sighed. It was clear that Ney'tiri had become even more difficult than her late sister had ever been.


	30. Chapter 30

It had taken over a month for Grace's Avatar to heal from the wounds it received at the schoolhouse. The medical technicians had found that the healing process for injuries went quicker when the driver lived in their Avatar as normal, but it was an emotional struggle for Grace to return into the link chamber. Every time she linked and felt the pain of her wounds, it reminded her of Sylwanin's death, and of the expression on Ney'tiri's face at the schoolhouse.

She had loved the Omaticaya, loved them more than life itself, and she had been cast out. Her misery spread through the Avatar team, turning the link room and the biolab into sombre places.

There was one thing worse. Every time she saw Quaritch, she relived the pain of being shot. The bastard had got away with it, thanks to his collusion with Selfridge. Fortunately, the man was a creature of routine, so she arranged her days to avoid him as much as possible – which was easy if she spent most of her time in her Avatar.

It might have been easier to stand, if Westin had not got himself killed. She really missed the big lug – not just his lusty skill in the sack, and his abilities as a drinking partner, but his dry humour and wit. Grace realised that she had lost a good friend.

She wrote long e-mails to Zha'nelle, but only once received anything back – a long series of Na'vi teaching songs about thanators. It seemed she totally had let go of her humanity. Grace did not blame her – Zha'nelle had a life to live among the Omaticaya. No woman should be torn between two worlds. If only, thought Grace, if only it could have been her...Angrily, she shoved the thought away. What was she doing, thinking stupid wishful thoughts? Doctor Grace Augustine was a scientist, goddammit, and did not believe in fairy stories.

So she went back to work.

The direction of her research had changed. Grace could not get out of her head what she had experienced at the Tree of Voices the day Sylwanin died. Through tsahaylu she had felt real memories, real people. How was this possible? If she had not been hallucinating, the data storage requirements were immense, to store entire personalities of the dead. She abandoned her previous efforts, and concentrated her formidable intellect on the interactions between the trees – between all plants.

It was interesting work – no, that was wrong. It was fascinating, intriguing, engrossing – if what she thought was right, it would revolutionise everything humanity knew about the Pandoran biosphere. Everything.

Slowly, so very slowly, the cloud that hung over the Avatar team lifted.

* * *

The happiest moment of Zha'nelle's life was the instant that Kalinkey placed her daughter in her arms.

"She is beautiful," whispered Zha'nelle, hardly believing that she was holding a new life. "Thank you, Kalinkey," she said, gently touching the face of her daughter in wonder.

Her sister grinned at her. "This is the best part of being a healer," she said happily. "Seeing a new life brought into being through the grace of Eywa – it is why I chose this art over all else." There was a commotion from outside the birthing chamber, and Kalinkey chuckled, "I think we had better let Mìnkxetse in, otherwise there will be a fight." She called out, "Tsawlontu, you can let him in."

An anxious Mìnkxetse rushed into the chamber. As soon as he saw his life-mate cradling their new daughter he stopped, and an expression of relief spread over his entire being.

Zha'nelle looked proudly up at Mìnkxetse and announced, "Look, my love, at what we have made."

Kalinkey watched with amusement as the new father knelt by Zha'nelle, to touch the new child with a sense of wonder on his face. It happened to all men, no matter how large and tough they were, to be overwhelmed by becoming fathers. Kalinkey touched her own swelling belly, and thought it would not be long before she, too, bore a child, and would feel what Zha'nelle was feeling. She slipped out of the birthing chamber, to allow the new parents to be alone with their child.

"May I hold her?" asked Mìnkxetse. On receiving a nod from his mate, he took his daughter into his arms. He then made Zha'nelle laugh by asking, "She is a girl, isn't she?"

Zha'nelle said, "Of course she is. All you have to do is look."

"Oh," he said. "I hadn't noticed." As Mìnkxetse cradled their daughter, he asked, "What is her name?"

"Sylwanin."

"A good name," said Mìnkxetse. He had thought Zha'nelle would name her after their lost friend, and was pleased that she had done so.

"It is a better name than yours or your brother's," said Zha'nelle, a little defensively. She had thought that Mìnkxetse would object to her choice. "Whatever was your mother thinking? Kink tail and big nose?"

Her mate laughed. "She had a terrible habit of saying the first thing that came into her head. Tsawlontu is just like her – that is why he gets in so much trouble with Kalinkey." He looked a little sad. "I wish she could have been here. She would have loved to have seen her grandchild."

"I had noticed that your brother was often careless with his words," noted Zha'nelle dryly. She felt a little pang for her life-mate. He had told Zha'nelle his mother died of a sudden illness seven years before. He never spoke of his father – and neither did his brother. One day she would ask him why, but not today. "Can I have her back now?"

* * *

Mo'at came to the birthing chamber later that morning, to bring the traditional blessing of Eywa upon the newborn. When she was told the child's name, her face froze for a moment, before she spoke the blessing.

Immediately the perfunctory blessing was given, the Tsahik left abruptly. She had done what was required of her, but no more than that.

Mìnkxetse did not look happy. "It is not right."

"Do not make trouble," said Zha'nelle gently. "Mo'at still feels the pain of her loss. She cannot accept that it was Eywa's will that Sylwanin died, and she needs to blame someone. That someone is me."

Frowning even more deeply, Mìnkxetse repeated, "It is still not right. She is Tsahik. Mo'at has been chosen to interpret the will of Eywa." He sighed, "But I will do as you ask."

* * *

A week after the birth, Zha'nelle marched into the alcove of the Tsahik.

The Tsahik growled, "What is the meaning of this?"

"Mo'at," said Zha'nelle, plucking her daughter out of her iveh k'nivi s'dir. "I wish you to make the acquaintance of my daughter. Her name is Sylwanin." She thrust her daughter at the Tsahik, and let go.

Zha'nelle's instincts had not deserted her. Without thinking, Mo'at caught the child before she fell to the ground. She snapped at Zha'nelle, "What are you thinking? She could have been hurt."

"Look at her," said Zha'nelle. "What do you see?"

Mo'at looked down at the baby, and her face softened. "She is beautiful," murmured the Tsahik. She smelt the fresh scent of all Na'vi newborn, and smiled.

"What is her name?" demanded Zha'nelle.

"Sylwanin," replied Mo'at reluctantly. The face of the Tsahik crumpled, and sobs wracked her body. Zha'nelle moved in to take her daughter, but Mo'at held on to her tightly, and would not release her. Instead, Zha'nelle held the Tsahik as she wept bitter tears, leaning into the embrace as she grieved for her daughter, while holding desperately the daughter of the woman she hated.

"No mother should have to outlive their child," said Zha'nelle, when Mo'at's sobbing finally ceased. "Even the tawtute say this. I understand this saying now, when before I did not."

Mo'at nodded, her tear-stained face now showing the anguish she had locked inside herself. "Thank you," she whispered.

They stood there for several minutes in silence, until Mo'at said shakily, "You should take your daughter - I mean Sylwanin. She is hungry."

As Zha'nelle fed her daughter, Mo'at asked, "Would you like refreshment, Zha'nelle? I have some haw'naerftang, if you wish."

All the clan knew of Zha'nelle's addiction to the purple brew. Zha'nelle was sorely tempted to say yes – it had been nine months since she had a single bowl, and her body shrieked for it every morning. "I would like that, Mo'at," she answered. "But not haw'naerftang. It will not be good for Sylwanin."

The Tsahik nodded. "You will be a good mother," she said, smiling now.

"I hope so," replied Zha'nelle.

* * *

That was the day Zha'nelle started learning her craft from Kalinkey.


	31. Chapter 31

"I am not going to let you touch any of the drugs again, Zha'nelle," said Kalinkey in a tired voice. Her back hurt, and she was looking forward to finally giving birth in a few days. "Not after you gave Wokan what you thought was a headache cure. Ilyana almost had a fit – he spent the next two days staring at the backs of his hands without saying a single word. He didn't even flinch when Ilyana hit him. Can't you ever get the combinations and dosages right?"

Zha'nelle said in a small voice, "I'm sorry, Kalinkey. I won't do it again."

"No, you won't," she retorted. "I'm not going to let you poison anyone again, so you can stay away from all the potions and powders."

"Even the haw'naerftang?" Zha'nelle asked anxiously.

Kalinkey confirmed, "Even the haw'naerftang." Her sister sighed despairingly. "I'll make it up for you – I don't think you can do any damage if I prepare the berries for you. But there will be no haw'naerftang for you until you stop breastfeeding Sylwanin. It isn't good for babies, even second-hand."

Zha'nelle nodded meekly. She really hadn't meant to mix up the powders again. It was just that she had been talking to Wokan's mate Ilyana about her new daughter when she picked up the wrong pottery jar.

Kalinkey sighed again. "At least you are making progress with easing muscles and aligning bones. If you stick with that I don't think even you can actually kill anyone."

What Kalinkey didn't say was that Zha'nelle was a natural. She seemed to know instinctively how a body should feel, and could almost instantly diagnose any problems a Na'vi had with his bones or muscles. When Kalinkey had started teaching her, Zha'nelle already knew how all the muscles and bones were connected – and that was one of the hardest things to learn.

Tears brimmed in Zha'nelle's eyes, tears of shame. She had not wanted to disappoint Kalinkey, not after the effort her sister had taken in trying to teach her. It was just...

"Oh!" said Kalinkey, her beautiful golden eyes wide open. Her hands moved to her rounded belly.

"What is it?" asked Zha'nelle unnecessarily. It could be only one thing.

"Call Mo'at," said Kalinkey. "It's my time."

Zha'nelle whirled and ran, one hand clasping her daughter in her nivi to her breast, seeking the Tsahik.

* * *

The labour was not going well, that much was obvious. It had been over a day since Zha'nelle had fetched Mo'at to tend to Kalinkey. Her eyes were dull and she had stopped making any noise more than an hour ago.

Mo'at sighed. "Call in Tsawlontu, Zha'nelle. It is time for him to farewell his mate." She drew her blade of truth. This was the part of the Tsahik's duties that Mo'at hated most, although it was a blessing in a way. A simple cut to the jugular and Kalinkey would quickly bleed out, and have a painless death.

"No!" snarled Zha'nelle, snatching the knife away from Mo'at, the sacrilege shocking her silent. No-one other than the Tsahik was permitted to touch the sacred blade. "I am not losing another sister. Get me the finest needle and thread you have – and boiling water, lots of it."

Shutting her eyes, Zha'nelle pictured in her mind what was to come. She saw the interior of Kalinkey's body, where everything lay – the strong layered muscles, the tendons joining the bones, the organs inside her – and the child that she bore. She knew what had to be done – heat the knife to cleanse it, and her hands. A single cut would do it, down low, just above the pubic bone. Reach inside her sister, inside her distressed womb, and deliver her child, and the afterbirth. Then take the needle and thread, carefully sewing the incision closed with tiny neat stiches, both inside and out – not forgetting to tie the thread off.

Zha'nelle was ready now. She opened her eyes and looked across Kalinkey's body into Mo'at's eyes, which held the strangest expression of surprise, even awe. "I am ready," said Zha'nelle finally, and looked down, ready to cut, only to see a boy-child resting on Kalinkey's bloodstained torso, and a neatly sewn incision exactly where she had planned to cut. Her bloody fingers opened in surprise, dropping the blade she had just used to cut the last thread. Zha'nelle fainted, collapsing limply to one side.

In amazement, Mo'at had watched Zha'nelle work swiftly and surely, her eyes lightly shut and her breath calm, every movement precise and exact, as though she had done this incredible thing a thousand times before. She had plucked a life from a dying woman, saving both mother and child. How she had ever thought this woman was evil...Mo'at could not complete the thought.

Kalinkey was stirring. "I hurt," she moaned, and opened her eyes. A weak smile appeared on her face as she saw her son, his chest rising and falling as he slept for the first time outside her body. "What is wrong with Zha'nelle?"

* * *

"I'm still not letting you near the drugs," said Kalinkey as she nursed her son, a week later. Mo'at had told her what had happened – how Zha'nelle had saved both her life and that of her son. She had named him Stxeli'tstal – gift of the knife.

Zha'nelle smiled. "You can keep them," she conceded. Her mind clicked over, thinking, if she could reproduce the drug she gave Wokan...he felt no pain for two days. That might be useful if she ever had to cut into someone again, if they weren't unconscious like her sister. Perhaps she could ask Kalinkey to make some up, and determine the right dosages.


	32. Chapter 32

Zha'nelle had been more than a little disturbed by her delivery of Kalinkey's son. She had no recollection of actually cutting into her body – just the memory of planning what she was going to do. Somehow, she had seen inside her sister without using her eyes, her hands unconsciously doing what was required. She shivered.

She talked to Mìnkxetse of her concern one morning, before he left on the hunt.

"I have always known you were touched by Eywa," he told her. "How else was your spirit moved from a tawtute body into that of a uniltìranyu? Surely it is a gift from our mother."

"There is something else," said Zha'nelle, bending over Sylwanin and watching her child gurgle and grab at her beaded plaits with her tiny four-fingered hands. At least her daughter was not marked with her strangeness. "Ney'tiri told me that I have spoken prophecy – twice. Once during the trance of Uniltaron, and again, not long before our daughter was born." She smiled at her daughter, and kissed her on her belly. "I do not remember doing so."

"What were the words you spoke?" he asked curiously.

Closing her eyes, she repeated the 'Ìnglìsì words that Ney'tiri had related to her.

"It is clear enough," said Mìnkxetse. "There will be war with the tawtute. Somehow, the fate of the Na'vi will hang on tawtute who are broken in some way." He tilted his head to one side, considering the words that she had recited. "They will probably be uniltìranyu. Despite the example of Wes-tin, I do not think tawtute that do not know us will defend us."

"I never asked for this," said Zha'nelle firmly. "I do not want it." She picked up Sylwanin, who grabbed at her braids again, caught one and pulled it hard, making her wince.

"Our daughter has a strong grip," said Mìnkxetse. "It will prove useful when she learns the bow." He smiled, looking forward to the time when he would teach her. "Do not forget that without the intervention of Eywa, you would have neither me nor Sylwanin."

"There is that," she conceded. He opened his arms and embraced them both. Zha'nelle leaned into his body, feeling his strength and breathing in his masculine scent. She opened her mouth and bit him lightly on the shoulder. "I wish you did not have to go hunting," she told him.

He chuckled. "If you keep doing that, I will not want to go." She turned her face up to his and they kissed gently. Mìnkxetse said, "I will return early. If Kalinkey will care for Sylwanin, we go flying."

"I would like that," she replied. It had been some time since she flew Äie'reypay last.

* * *

Since Kalinkey had given birth, she liked to sleep in the middle of the day to help her healing, so Zha'nelle was occupying the healer's alcove, keeping an eye on the two young babies. It was unlikely anyone would require Kalinkey's services at that time, although her sister had extracted a promise to wake her if any potions or powders were required to be administered.

As it was, Zha'nelle was left alone. That is, until a large angry male stormed in.

"Where is Kalinkey?" demanded Tsu'tey. "I require her services."

"She is asleep," snapped Zha'nelle, bristling at his arrogant attitude.

"Wake her up," ordered the future olo'eyktan of the Omaticaya.

Zha'nelle crossed her arms across her chest and glared back at him. "No," she said quietly. "She is recovering from a difficult birth, and needs her rest."

"Ngah!" he growled.

For a moment Zha'nelle thought Tsu'tey might strike her, but he turned to leave. It was then that she saw his left hand, with two of his fingers pointing in different directions. "Wait!" she ordered. "You are hurt. I will deal with this. Give me your hand."

Tsu'tey hesitated for a moment, and then turned, presenting his hand for inspection. He definitely dislocated two of his fingers badly. It must be hurting like the very devil, she thought. "How did you do this?" she asked as she gently took his hand, making him flinch slightly.

"A talioang knocked me from my pa'li in the hunt," he admitted. "I fell awkwardly."

She nodded. That was more than enough to do something like this. He was lucky to have escaped serious injury. "This will hurt," she told him, taking one finger in a firm grip.

"You will enjoy that, no doubt," he said sarcastically. "Gngh!" he groaned as she yanked one finger back into place.

"You have no idea," she challenged him, taking his other finger, "How much I enjoy doing this to you."

Tsu'tey bristled at her – Zha'nelle took the opportunity to pull hard on the other finger, feeling the tendons and bones snap back into place. "Gah!" he groaned, his knees sagging at the sudden shock.

"On the floor," she ordered brusquely. "No, on your stomach." A serious fall may have shifted the bones in his back. She ran her fingers along his spine and felt one small kink. Zha'nelle twisted his hip to one side, placed her elbow next to the kink and suddenly applied all her weight into it. There was a satisfying 'click' as the displaced vertebra smoothly regained its proper alignment, and he grunted as the air was expelled from his lungs. At that moment, an image burnt into her brain of a falling Na'vi, far above the forest, stained with blood, ceremonial yellow cords streaming in the air behind him.

"You may get up now," Zha'nelle told him, as she rose to her feet. She shivered slightly – the vision had seemed so real.

Tsu'tey examined his hand carefully, and then tilted his head from one side to the other. He grudgingly said, "Irayo."

"Your fingers will swell up," she told him. "If you want them to heal quicker, hold them in the cold stream once an hour for the rest of the day, for as long as you can stand." She rummaged around in the shelving and found a sling. "Wear this at all other times, and do not use your hand until three days after the swelling has gone down.

He nodded, but said, "I still do not like you."

"Nor do I like you," snapped Zha'nelle. "Now go and do as I bid." She hesitated for a moment before something impelled her to say, "Avoid wearing the colour yellow."

Tsu'tey looked at her strangely, clearly thinking her crazy. He nodded again, and turned to leave without another word.

She was glad to see the back of the arrogant...Zha'nelle could not think of an appropriate word.

* * *

Mìnkxetse was as good as his word.

He returned from the hunt in the middle of the afternoon, and they joyously flew together until sunset.

Zha'nelle had forgotten all about her vision by the time they returned to Kelutrel.


	33. Chapter 33

Zha'nelle groaned as she woke and stretched luxuriantly. Ever since she had worked on Tsu'tey's hand, more Na'vi were coming in to the healer's alcove asking specifically for her. It wasn't just the obvious injuries, either.

Many Na'vi were carrying old injuries – muscle tears, shortened tendons, a whole multitude of aches and pains obtained over the years of their strenuous lives. Zha'nelle worked on them all, and by each sunset she was physically and emotionally wrung out.

Often, when she was working on an injury, Zha'nelle could feel thoughts through her hands, particularly if the man or woman was troubled. It seemed only natural to talk, and get them to open up about their worries. As they talked, she could feel the tension dissipate from their bodies. It was easier to correct an injury if the spirit was at ease.

Between caring for her daughter and the injured she had little time for herself, or for that matter Mìnkxetse. Kalinkey was amused by Zha'nelle's sudden popularity, telling her that she had to pace her sessions, otherwise she would work herself into a state of exhaustion and nervous collapse. She suggested that she should only see the halt and lame four days out of seven.

Zha'nelle was reluctant to take her advice, but she could see that unless she did something, she would end up a total quivering wreck.

What was really troubling Zha'nelle was the times when she flashed on a vision of the future. Almost invariably her visions focused on death and pain – almost all of them at the hands of the tawtute. It was not only through the words that Ney'tiri recited that Zha'nelle knew that war was coming.

However, it was not always like that. Ninat, the friend of Ney'tiri who had made the palulukan teaching songs, was talking to Zha'nelle as she worked on her brother Txep'ean. The two were almost inseparable, and neither seemed to be interested in seeking mates – although Ninat was very flirtatious, whereas Txep'ean's personality was of a much more serious mien.

Ninat said, "Txep'ean found an abandoned tawtute kunsip, on the edge of our hunting grounds, near the great ravine. He said it had been there for some time." She was holding Sylwanin in her arms, letting her play her favourite game of grabbing at beaded plats.

"Oh?" asked Zha'nelle disinterestedly. It was unusual of the tawtute to abandon their machines.

"Srane," grunted Txep'ean, as Zha'nelle leaned her weight into a troublesome muscle in his lower back. "A tree is growing though it."

A vision flashed into her mind, of a petite Na'vi woman – no, uniltìranyu – holding two short blades dripping with blood, her eyes not golden but jet black, poised gracefully above the bodies of her slain enemies. Zha'nelle felt an overwhelming sensation of passion and wildness, and unchecked violence, but above all she felt love – love for the two Na'vi with her in this alcove.

The shock of the woman's spirit hit Zha'nelle's body, leaving her as breathless as though she had plunged into an icy cold pool. What came next was far worse. The woman turned her black eyes towards Zha'nelle, Saw her and laughed, saying, 'Zha'nelle, you know what you must do.'

"Zha'nelle, are you alright?" asked Ninat, looking a little concerned. Instantly, the vision had gone.

Zha'nelle chuckled lightly, but she felt anything but calm inside. No spirit in any of her visions had ever looked back at her. "Just daydreaming, Ninat. I'm fine. Txep'ean, you were saying about the kunsip?"

She listened half-heartedly to the two siblings talk to her. Somehow she managed to give semi-coherent contributions to the conversation – the power of the dream-woman's spirit was incredible, even though Zha'nelle knew she was not yet on this world. Luckily she had almost finished treating Txep'ean.

When Zha'nelle took Sylwanin back from Ninat, impulsively she hugged the young woman, and whispered into her ear, "She will be wonderful for you."

"Who?" asked Ninat, involuntarily.

"You'll see," said Zha'nelle mysteriously. She looked at Txep'ean, adding, "So will you."

The two siblings walked off quickly, without a doubt talking in low voices about the strangeness of Zha'nelle the healer.

* * *

Unusually, there was no-one waiting to be treated after the siblings left. Did she dare? The words of the strange uniltìranyu dared her to go.

She did.

Zha'nelle lifted Sylwanin into her nivi, grabbed her bow and started to climb into the heights of Kelutrel. As she emerged onto the branch of the ikran rookery, Äie'reypay was waiting for her.

Sylwanin squealed with glee as her mother swung into the saddle, and the ikran plunged off the branch into the air, out into empty space. She glanced down at her child in the nivi, held firmly against her breast by the airflow rushing past them, seeing only a happy toothless grin.

Zha'nelle called out in sheer exhilaration, "Ìley ìley ìley." The ikran caught a strong thermal and rocketed up into the sky, soaring up at an amazing speed, until they were among the wispy clouds. A single thought directed Äie'reypay towards the edge of Omaticaya territory, towards the great ravine, trading altitude for speed and distance. She could hear the wing membranes thrumming as air rushed over them, until they arrived over the great ravine.

The telltale signs of another thermal beckoned Zha'nelle. She banked Äie'reypay in a steep turn, side-slipping into the updraught. It was not as strong as the thermal near Kelutrel, but it sufficed to lift them more than two thousand feet back towards the clouds. In the distance Zha'nelle could see the clouds of smoke and steam that hung over the tawtute place – she did not want to go any closer.

Instead her eyes scanned below, looking for – there it was, a small gap in the canopy in the forest. Her ikran spiralled down, and landed in one of the forest giants. Zha'nelle broke the bond and swung off her saddle, grabbing for a hanging vine, using it to slide down to the forest floor.

To her surprise Sylwanin was asleep, resting peacefully against the warmth of her mother's body.

The kunsip – a strange word rose into her mind - chopper? – rested at a crazy angle on the ground. It was clear why it had fallen from the sky. Great scars from the claws of a toruk had torn into the metal, crippling the tawtute flying machine. She walked around to the front of the craft, passing a sapling growing through one of the rotors, and saw that the pilot did not survive the crash. A broken branch from the fallen tree the kunsip was resting on had penetrated the floor, thrusting into the chest of the pilot, holding the bones of his rib cage and skull against his seat.

Zha'nelle traced the faded name on the door – Tuçek, G – and sounded out his name, feeling the strange sound in her mouth. A vision flashed into her mind, of a handsome pilot laughing with his door gunners, looking forward to a day's rest at Hell's Gate, when there was a sudden impact, smashing the kunsip to one side of its flight path. He dimly heard the screams of the door gunners as they were ripped from the cargo area by the force of the impact. The console in front of him lit up with warning lights like a Christmas tree. Somehow, he escaped the grip of the toruk, searching desperately for somewhere to put his crippled bird down.

Somehow the pilot managed to slow the fall of the kunsip, but not enough, smashing through the canopy and into the forest floor, a part of the forest claiming his life. Zha'nelle felt the last thought the pilot had – 'oh, fuck' – before he died.

He had come a long way to die in this place, so she begged his forgiveness for what she was about to do, disturbing his resting place. Zha'nelle moved the nivi containing her sleeping daughter to one side, so that she would have room to do what she came for.

Taking an arrow, she nocked and drew, aiming directly for the co-pilot's seat from head on. Her fingers let go the string, her arrow striking the armoured glass and glancing off. It was as Zha'nelle expected – the glass would resist an arrow strike. Perhaps if she tried to shoot it square on. She moved and took a second shot, growling with satisfaction as the arrow punched a large hole through the glass, burying itself deep in the co-pilot's seat.

As she recovered her two arrows, she knew it would be possible to kill the pilot of a kunsip in the sky – difficult, but still possible. There would be hope for the Na'vi yet, when it came to war with the tawtute.

She placed her five-fingered hand on the pilot's door and said, "Irayo."

* * *

When Zha'nelle returned to Kelutrel it was close to sunset.

Mìnkxetse glowered at her when she descended to the ground. "Where have you been?" he demanded. "No-one knew where you had gone. Not even Kalinkey."

She bristled back at him. "I am not a creature to be kept in a cage," she hissed. "You know that."

His shoulders slumped. "I do not want to fight with you," he said, looking down at the ground. When he lifted his eyes back to her face, all she could see was the hurt and worry in his expression. "I just want to be sure you are safe and well – both you and Sylwanin."

Her heart breaking, Zha'nelle whispered, "I'm sorry, Mìnkxetse. I did not think." A tear ran down her right cheek at the pain she had caused him. "I had to go," she told him.

His hand took hers, and squeezed it gently. "It is difficult, I know," he said. "To be trapped in Kelutrel by responsibility when before you roamed free."

Zha'nelle smiled tentatively at her mate. "Sylwanin likes to fly." She held her daughter out for him to take.

"Does she now?" he said. Mìnkxetse held Sylwanin high up in the air and smiled at her happy gurgle. "You are right, my love. She does like to fly, just like her mother."


	34. Chapter 34

The months flew past, and Sylwanin grew like a weed. Before long she was walking, and Zha'nelle seemed to spend much of her time chasing after her. If she took her eyes off her daughter for an instant Sylwanin would be gone.

One day she was working in the healer's alcove on a difficult dislocation when Ney'tiri came in carrying a wriggling and giggling Sylwanin under one arm. "I found this one headed for the stream where the pa'li gather," said Ney'tiri. "You really should put her on a leash."

"Arrgh," groaned the unfortunate male as Zha'nelle jerked a little harder on his arm than she meant to. Still, the shoulder snicked back into place, so perhaps it wasn't all bad.

"Sorry," she apologised to the poor man.

"I'd hate to be on your bad side, like Tsu'tey," he commented drily. "I can imagine how much you would hurt someone if you really didn't like them."

Zha'nelle couldn't help but laugh. She had developed a formidable reputation amongst the males of the Omaticaya as a woman who enjoyed inflicting pain. They kept on coming back, though. More than one of the males held the view that the best thing about receiving treatment from Zha'nelle was when she stopped they felt a sense of absolute euphoria from the absence of pain - like when one stopped hitting one's head against one of the pillars of Kelutrel.

The women of the Omaticaya, on the other hand, especially those that had gone through childbirth, held that men knew nothing about real pain. Any discomfort that Zha'nelle inflicted during a treatment was purely transitory, unlike living with men.

"Irayo, Ney'tiri," said Zha'nelle. She gazed at her daughter coolly. "Sylwanin?"

"Thrane, tha'nu," lisped her daughter.

"Why aren't you playing with Stxeli'tstal as you promised?" asked Zha'nelle. Kalinkey had no more success in keeping Sylwanin from running off than Zha'nelle did.

"He's boring, and a cry-baby," declaimed the little girl. Ney'tiri was watching this interplay with interest, wondering how she would deal with recalcitrant offspring when it became her time to be a mother. The formerly injured man was also watching with fascination.

"I see," commented Zha'nelle. "What did I tell you would happen if you ran off again?"

Real fear struck Sylwanin's eyes. In a small voice she said, "You wouldn't take me on Äie'reypay anymore." The little girl well knew that Zha'nelle was the only Omaticaya female with an ikran that took her child flying. She even had a special leather harness made so Sylwanin was in no danger of falling.

"What would you do if you were in my hammock?" asked Zha'nelle. "If your daughter was naughty all the time?"

"Not take me flying," whispered Sylwanin. She looked as though she was about to burst into tears.

Zha'nelle turned suddenly to the male she had been treating. "You! Get me Mìnkxetse. Now!" The crack of command in her voice was irresistible. The poor male left the alcove so quickly it was almost magical.

"I think playtime is over, Sylwanin," said Zha'nelle. She smoothed out the rug on the floor she used as her treatment area, seeming to almost ignore her daughter. "It is time to grow up, and start learning." The words she spoke sent a sudden chill down her spine, as though they applied to her as much as her daughter.

Mìnkxetse arrived at the door to the alcove with a wild look in his eye. "There you are, my love," said Zha'nelle. "It is time for you to take our daughter in hand, and start teaching her how to be taronyu."

An expression of hope appeared in Sylwanin's face.

"If your father tells me that you have applied yourself to lessons and not misbehaved," said Zha'nelle, "I may – I said may – consider taking you flying again." She glared at her mate, adding, "I expect you can manage this task?"

"Yes, Zha'nelle," agreed Mìnkxetse.

"Now take the brat away, and don't bring her back until it is time to eat," said Zha'nelle, her voice cold and uncaring. She made a shooing gesture with both hands.

A very meek Sylwanin took her father's hand. Just before they exited the alcove, she turned back to her mother to say, "Irayo, tha'nu."

Ney'tiri had watched the whole exchange with astonishment, that Zha'nelle had not used the threat of physical punishment against her daughter once. She turned to ask her why, to see tears trickling down her friend's face.

"I've lost my baby girl," said Zha'nelle sadly. At least she had carefully left herself an out so that she could still take Sylwanin flying with her – but it wouldn't be for much longer. Her daughter would soon be too big for Äie'reypay to carry them both.

Ney'tiri wanted to comfort her friend. "Why don't you come and shoot some targets with me," she suggested. "That will cheer you up."

Zha'nelle nodded. She would enjoy shooting some shafts, especially against an archer as accomplished as Ney'tiri. There were two bows leaning against the wall – the bow that Zha'nelle had been using for years, and a heavy war bow. Ney'tiri had thought it belonged to the male Zha'nelle had been treating, but was surprised when she saw Zha'nelle's fingers wrap around the handgrip. She was about to ask what the hell was she thinking when she really Saw the healer.

Years of treating the injuries of the men and women of the Omaticaya had turned Zha'nelle's physique from soft femininity into sharply-defined ridges of muscle. Almost all had forgotten her origins as a uniltìranyu, but the broad shoulders and deeper chest of her heritage marked her as being much stronger than the average Na'vi woman.

Zha'nelle watched Ney'tiri assessing her physique and grinned ruefully. She admitted, "I found my old bow was too light, so I made myself a new one."

"What does it draw?" she asked curiously.

"A bit more than three times my body weight," replied Zha'nelle, raising a challenging eyebrow. "It took a little getting used to."

Ney'tiri tried not to gasp. That was as heavy as the most powerful bows used by any of the men. "What did Mìnkxetse say?" she asked.

Zha'nelle shrugged. "He said it was my funeral if I wanted to use a bow that heavy."

* * *

No-one else was using the archery butts when they arrived. "You go first," said Ney'tiri. She wanted to see what she was up against.

Zha'nelle nodded. She shrugged her shoulders a few times, and tilted her head from side to side to loosen up, before taking a classic stance. As she drew, the muscles in her arms, shoulders and back bulged, demonstrating her impressive strength. She did not hold the position long, but her release was a thing of beauty. The arrow flashed across to the target in an impossibly flat trajectory, striking the target dead centre with her first shot. The impact of her arrows was so great the target visibly shifted, even though it was heavily weighted down. Her next two shots followed exactly the same pattern

"Your turn," said Zha'nelle, grinning at the younger woman.

Ney'tiri swallowed nervously. She had been used to being the best archer in the clan for the last two seasons, but it seemed she might no longer be in that position – not if Zha'nelle was to enter the lists. She managed to shoot her three casts with her usual accuracy, but the impact of her arrows was nothing like that of Zha'nelle's. The target cracked and splintered with each hit of Zha'nelle's arrows, finally splitting in half after only six rounds. They moved on to another target, doubling the range for interest's sake.

They talked as they walked to retrieve their arrows.

At one stage Zha'nelle commented, "You are to mate with Tsu'tey."

Ney'tiri replied, "Yes. He is a strong warrior and great hunter, and is to be the next olo'eyktan."

"So you respect him," said Zha'nelle.

"Of course," said Ney'tiri. "I have known him all my life. Never has he done anything to earn my disrespect."

"It is an interesting foundation for a relationship," quipped Zha'nelle. "Not one that I would choose."

"I am to be Tsahik, and Tsu'tey is to be olo'eyktan," said Ney'tiri tersely. "It is our duty to mate."

"Ah, duty," said Zha'nelle. A face flickered into her inner eye, of a male she had never seen before, causing her to laugh. It was clear that Eywa would have different plans for Ney'tiri. "That explains everything."

Ney'tiri abruptly asked Zha'nelle what it was like mating with Mìnkxetse.

Zha'nelle was no shrinking violet, so she told the young woman exactly what it felt like to join in tsahaylu with one she loved. It was clear to her that Ney'tiri did not expect to ever experience this joy.

All-in-all the two women shot sixteen rounds that morning, but there was nothing between them in terms of accuracy.

As they returned to Kelutrel, they saw Tsu'tey walking towards them with his close friend Tsaylu, clearly going to shoot some practice shafts themselves. Zha'nelle excused herself and skipped down a side path that took her via back via the lake, so she didn't have to exchange words with the unpleasant one.

It was well known that Tsu'tey and Zha'nelle did not like each other, but no-one had ever explained to her why. As she met the two males, Ney'tiri made the gesture of greeting, saying "Oel ngati kameie."

Tsu'tey made the return gesture, but then demanded, "Why do you associate with that woman? She is a weakling and a coward."

Ney'tiri was shocked at his vehemence, and snapped back, "Zha'nelle is one of the strongest women I know, and she is brave as well."

He spat on the ground, showing his disdain for her defence. "Pah! That is what I think of her!"

"I do not remember you killing tawtute soldiers at the schoolhouse, or riding a palulukan," retorted Ney'tiri. "Do not speak of what you do not understand." Angrily, she pushed past the pair.

"Ha! What would a woman know!" cried out Tsaylu.

If Ney'tiri had looked back, she would have seen Tsu'tey's face wearing an unfamiliar expression – doubt.

* * *

Zha'nelle sat on a rock smoothed by wind and water over thousands of years, and looked out over the lake. It was as beautiful a sight as any on this wonderful world, and she was thinking how lucky she was to be in this place, in this time.

A brilliant light flared into existence high in the sky above her – the matter/anti-matter fusion drive of a human starship lighting up, thrusting to achieve orbit around Pandora.

It was time.


	35. Chapter 35

"The broken one comes," said Zha'nelle. She did not speak of the other – that message would not be for the Tsahik of the Omaticaya to receive. "The tawtute must be allowed to return, as we discussed."

Mo'at's head snapped around at the unexpected words."Are you sure?" she demanded.

Zha'nelle nodded. "As sure as I am that my heart beats within my body," she replied. "War is upon us. Without him the Na'vi will be swept aside."

Mo'at opened her mouth to ask another question, but Zha'nelle shook her head in negation. "I can provide no more answers," she said regretfully. "The prophecy will be invalidated otherwise."

"But you know more," pressed the Tsahik.

Zha'nelle nodded, and shivered. "We are balanced on the edge of a knife. One wrong move, one wrong decision and the Na'vi are doomed," she told Mo'at. Zha'nelle could See the millions of different paths that could be taken, most of them ending in a desolate, lifeless Pandora. Only a few paths were green with life. "All I can say to you is to do what seems right, and tell no-one of what you know."

To Zha'nelle's surprise, Mo'at looked upon her with sadness, even pity. "I would wish your burden on no living creature."

"Thank you," whispered Zha'nelle.

* * *

Zha'nelle returned to the rock looking over the lake bearing her old kitbag, and sat down on the smooth surface. What she was about to do now would set her path, and mean the death of many Na'vi and human alike – possibly even hers, although that knowledge was hidden from her.

Her hands slid the data tablet out of the battered kitbag. The dark display lightened as the bright sunlight struck the solar cells embedded in the frame, and an icon started to flash as the depleted power cells began to recharge.

A few minutes later, Zha'nelle started to write.

* * *

There were only three Avatar tanks on this flight, thank Christ, thought the loadmaster. The heavy bastards were difficult to handle, even in zero gravity, and expensive as hell. He had heard the story of one of his predecessors who had damaged one and killed the avatar – the company denied it, of course, but everyone knew it was true.

The sooner the shuttle was on the ground and the tanks were safely stowed the happier he would be.

* * *

Grace Augustine was angry. She had just found out that one of her researchers had been got himself killed and been replaced by his dumb identical twin brother - a fucking jarhead, just like that stupid idiot Westin. It would be hoping too much if Sully got himself killed too, just like his brother

What the fuck did the suits at RDA Central think they were doing? She needed a qualified researcher, fluent in Na'vi – not that they were likely to encounter any, except at the end of a poisoned arrow.

She fumed as she read the e-mail downloads from the _Venture Star_, when notification of a new message popped up.

More fucking e-mail, she thought. Couldn't IT download the Earth traffic in one single...Grace read the originating address. She could not credit it – it had been years since the last message, only a few months after the schoolhouse... Her fingers trembled as she opened it, and her disbelieving eyes read the flowing Na'vi text.

It was from Zha'nelle. The Omaticaya had relented on their ban, permitting human researchers into their territory as far as the schoolhouse, but no further. The ban on machines was still in place, although they would be permitted to fly in. Grace let out a whoop of glee.

"What is it?" asked Max. He hadn't seen Grace smile since he didn't know when.

Grace was grinning like the Cheshire Cat. "The Omaticaya," she said, "They are letting us back in." She launched herself back to her feet. "I have to see Selfridge, organise flights. There isn't any time to waste!"

* * *

"So a blue monkey sent you an e-mail," said Selfridge. He shook his head unbelievingly. "This is crazy, even for you. Do you know how many Sec-ops troops the brutes killed over the last three years? Thirty-one, Grace, thirty-one. I'm not going to risk sending very expensive Avatars into Omaticaya-land, just on your say-so."

Grace admitted it sounded crazy, even to her. She would have to lead her argument with part of the truth. "One of the Omaticaya has the data tablet that belonged to Janelle Manitowabi. She has been sending me e-mails about clan life, from not long after Janelle died. I arranged to have Janelle's account hacked so it couldn't be traced."

"You did what?" The normally even-tempered administrator's voice rose in incredulity. "What the fuck were you teaching them in the school, Grace? How to build WMD, for chrissake?"

"They are very smart, Parker," explained Grace. "Smarter than the average human." She drew a deep breath, and started to talk at great length about the advantages this opportunity would have in terms of her precious research.

Selfridge wasn't really listening to Grace explain. His mind was racing, piecing together possibilities. This replacement Avatar driver, Sully, was a Marine. He would be loyal to that insane prick Quaritch, not Grace. If they could use Sully to get inside, get the blue monkeys to move out of their stinking tree, he might be able to pull off a PR triumph AND get the new mine into production. A win-win scenario – he liked it. He liked it a lot.

There might even be an extra bonus in it for him. And if it didn't work, Quaritch could always blow the shit out of the place, like they had already planned. No-one would give a shit, as long as the unobtanium kept flowing.

"Ok, ok, Grace," said Selfridge holding up a hand to stop the earnest explanation. "You don't have to keep bending my ears. You've convinced me. I'll assign you a chopper and a pilot – but at the first sign of trouble, I'm pulling you out of there."

"Thank you, Parker," said Grace effusively. "You won't regret it."

Selfridge would have to keep a closer eye on Grace Augustine. Slipping a data tablet to the Na'vi as a back-channel was a subtle move that he had not thought her capable of.

* * *

It was done. Zha'nelle sat on the rock, watching the breeze ripple the surface of the water. She picked up a stone and tossed it into the water, and watched the circular ripples clash with the straight ripples caused by the wind, turning the surface of the water into a chaotic jumble.

She had thrown her rock. Only Eywa knew how it would finish.


	36. Chapter 36

The chopper flared as it settled into the schoolhouse LZ. In her eagerness Grace leapt out before the skids touched the ground. The door-gunner cried out, "Dr Augustine, wait!"

She ignored him and ran along the path to the schoolhouse.

The elements had not been kind to the rustic building. There were many holes in the thatching, and the sawn timber had turned a mixture of grey and mossy green. Grace slowed to a walk as she approached the steps, remembering the happy cries and smiles of the Na'vi children. It was no longer a happy place.

"Kaltxi, Grace," said a voice from behind her. "I was wrong when I said we would not meet again."

Grace spun around to see an unfamiliar Na'vi woman – or was she? Grace asked uncertainly, "Zha'nelle?" The woman was the most heavily muscled Na'vi female Grace had ever seen. She looked like she could rip the head off a sturmbeest without raising a sweat.

"At least you remember how to say my name properly," commented the woman drily.

"I'm sorry, Zha'nelle," apologised Grace. "It's been a while, and I didn't recognise you. You've changed." Zha'nelle was wearing her hair in the style of a proven warrior – one that had killed enemies of the Omaticaya. She was intimidating as all hell.

"It happens," replied Zha'nelle. Her ears flicked forward. "Two soldiers come here, along the path. Give them word to return to the kunsip, or I will kill them both."

Her flat voice sent chills down Grace's spine. The tone said that Zha'nelle would do exactly as she said, and Grace had no doubt that it didn't matter that the soldiers were carrying automatic weapons.

Grace's hand flashed to her throat mike, pressing the transmit button. "Guys, go back to the chopper. I'm fine." There was vociferous squawking from the earpiece that Zha'nelle couldn't quite make out, which was answered by Grace commanding, "No, I mean it. I'll be perfectly safe. There is a Na'vi warrior here." She turned her gaze to Zha'nelle, asking, "Just why are you here?"

Zha'nelle smiled, answering, "To welcome you back, and give you a message."

"And the message is?" asked Grace.

"If any tawtute or uniltìranyu goes beyond this point on Omaticaya land, they will be killed."

"Not exactly a friendly message," commented Grace.

Zha'nelle pointed to the balcony of the schoolhouse. "My sister Sylwanin died there from the guns of the tawtute. My heart still aches at her death, and I long for vengeance. Do you think I wish to be friends with those who killed her?" As Grace registered the shock of her words, she added, "Do not think of me as Toktor Zha'nelle Manitowabi, Grace. I am not her. That woman died years ago."

"Why are the Omaticaya letting us back in, if you hate us so much?" demanded Grace.

"I do not expect that you would understand, Grace," replied Zha'nelle. "But it is the will of Eywa."

"That is no explanation," objected Grace.

Zha'nelle smiled again. "I told you that you would not understand." She turned to leave.

Grace interrupted, "Don't go. I have so many questions."

"You may ask one," answered Zha'nelle. How like Grace, she thought, trying to squeeze every drop of information out.

"Are you happy?" asked Grace.

Now, she did not expect that question from Grace - from another Na'vi, perhaps, but not a human. Perhaps there was hope for her yet. "Yes," said Zha'nelle simply. "I have found my life mate, and we have a daughter. Her name is Sylwanin."

Grace's eyes involuntarily slid back to the balcony. Zha'nelle said, "Yes, she is named after my sister of the tsumuke'awsiteng." When she saw Grace open her mouth to ask another question, Zha'nelle interrupted, "I would ask the same question of you. Are you happy, Grace?"

The answer slipped out before Grace could stop herself. "No."

Zha'nelle laughed and said mysteriously, "You will be, soon." She called for her ikran, which landed in a flurry of wingbeats. Before Grace could object, Zha'nelle had swung into the saddle and the fearsome pair took off, clawing for altitude.

* * *

Ney'tiri was boiling with fury. How could her mother allow the tawtute back? They killed Sylwanin – she died in Ney'tiri's own arms, staining her soul with her sister's blood. Did her death mean _nothing_?

If she had stayed at Kelutrel, Ney'tiri could not have stopped herself from disputing the decision of her mother, bringing disrespect on herself and the clan. She had to get away from everyone, to try and burn out her anger before she did something she would regret for the rest of her life.

Her ears twitched – something clumsy was stumbling along the forest floor, breaking twigs and brushing aside undergrowth, as though it was an 'angitsa bull bellowing for its mates. It could only be...a tawtute. She sniffed, smelling the alien reek of their clothing, of their machines and guns.

It was a uniltìranyu, a tawtute wearing a false body. Strangely, it was not carrying one of the horrible guns that slew with noise at a distance, such as killed her sister. This would be an easy kill, she thought.

* * *

Grace was thinking, "Not another one."

It was only the second time she had seen a thanator in the wild. The way it pursued its prey was relentless. At the schoolhouse, even through the haze of her wounds, she witnessed one of the fell beasts rip through an entire squad of armed men. How an inexperienced Avatar driver could escape one with no assistance she had no idea.

The fact that the link room had been providing her with constant updates with the status of Jake's link to his Avatar was no comfort. He was probably lying injured somewhere, slowly dying from his wounds. Many drivers died when their Avatars died, if they were still in link.

The jarhead had surprised her. He had the fastest adaption to an Avatar on record, almost as though he was born for it. For a little while she had hoped...

She shook her head. Hope was for the weak. Determination, planning and guts got you through problems, not infantile hoping for divine intervention.

* * *

Mo'at studied the uniltìranyu that her daughter had brought to Kelutrel. Could this be the broken one that Zha'nelle's words spoke of, the words that had been sent by Eywa? He was an unprepossessing sight, clumsy and ignorant – he even admitted that he knew nothing of Eywa. And he stank of machines, of sour clothing and filth.

"My cup is empty, trust me," said the stranger. "Just ask Doctor Augustine."

His words struck Mo'at like a lightning bolt. After he admitted he had been a warrior, a warrior of the Jarhead clan, she glanced at Zha'nelle. She was standing in the midst of the clan, holding her daughter's hand, her facing wearing a curious half-smile. Their eyes met, Zha'nelle inclining her head slightly. At that moment, Mo'at was sure. This was the broken one of whom Eywa had spoken.

She knew what she had to do.

* * *

There was little hope of sleep tonight, thought Ney'tiri, lying in her hammock. At least she did not have to look at the uniltìranyu, even though she could feel his unwelcome presence behind her.

She wondered how her mother could make her do this thing. To teach this ignorant skxawng the way of the Omaticaya, to have to spend every waking moment with one of the people that killed her sister – did her mother hate her?

The words that Mo'at had said gave her no room to avoid her duty – she had spoken not as her mother, but as Tsahik of the Omaticaya. Ney'tiri could not disobey, not now she was adult.

A secret smile touched her face. There were ways of obeying. Ney'tiri would not make it easy for this Zhake'soolly. There would be no coddling like a baby, or gentle introductions into new things. She would throw him in the deep end. If he was the broken one of the prophecy he would survive. If not, he would die, and she would be revenged on another tawtute.

With that comforting thought in her mind Ney'tiri slipped into the realm of sleep.


	37. Chapter 37

"Kalinkey?" asked an unfamiliar male voice behind her.

"My sister is out collecting plants," said Zha'nelle. She was tiding the shelves she used for storing the things that she used in treating the injured, her back to the entrance to the healer's alcove. She wasn't rearranging the shelves that contained the drugs, of course. Kalinkey would have a blue fit if she dared so much as touch them. The male didn't sound sick – he probably just had some trifling injury. "Lie face down on the rug, and I will have a look at you in a moment."

Jake Sully did as he was told. The woman who had spoken sounded exactly like one of the senior charge nurses at the VA hospital. They didn't take any crap from any of the injured grunts. There was no point in arguing with them – the best course of action was to just do what they asked. Even the doctors lived in fear of those nurses. This Na'vi woman would have intimidated the Sergeant Major of the Corps, let alone any medical personnel. Not only that, if she had entered the Miss Universe body building competition, she would have blown every competitor out of the arena – going by the ripple of muscles in her back. God knows what she looked like from the front.

"I am sorry," he said carefully. "I am new to the Omaticaya, and do not know your name. Mine is Jake Sully." He had practiced this Na'vi phrase repeatedly, and had used it several times already to good effect.

Zha'nelle froze for a moment as she heard the unmistakeable accent of a tawtute in the too-careful Na'vi. It was Zhake'soollly, the uniltìranyu – the broken one. She had not expected to come face to face with him. She sighed softly. If he was here, then Eywa meant for him to be here.

"I am Zha'nelle, one of the healers here," she answered, turning around to face him, but he was already face-down on the floor. "What appears to be the problem?"

"My neck is sore," said Jake, his voice muffled by the rug. There was a hole in the rug for his nose, which was placed over a depression in the floor. "Ney'tiri was teaching me how to fall from the heights of the forest. It did not go well."

"You can speak 'Ìnglìsì," she said in her Na'vi accented English, "If it will make you more comfortable. I am quite fluent, although I get little practice now."

Jake replied in halting Na'vi, "Irayo. I need the practice, so I speak Na'vi." Zha'nelle was right – her English was very fluent. It was much better than Ney'tiri's, but then she was older – or at least he thought she was. It was very difficult to judge the age of Na'vi adult females. He frowned – she had an unusual name, or at least it seemed unusual – it sounded more like a Na'vi pronunciation of Janelle than anything else. "Ney'tiri told me that she did not want to hear me moaning about my sore neck all day, so she sent me here to see Kalinkey."

"That sounds like Ney'tiri," said Zha'nelle. She knelt alongside Jake and started to feel along his spine. It was quite a mess – there were so many displacements, minor muscle tears and tight tendons, it would take over an hour to treat him properly – perhaps closer to two.

"You know her?" asked Jake. She might look tough, but Zha'nelle had an amazingly gentle touch.

"Yes, we are very good friends," replied Zha'nelle. "It seems she has been rather hard on you – there are many small injuries." She rose to get some oil – Zha'nelle would need it, if she was to repair the accumulated damage from his training. "I am afraid you will take some time to treat."

She knelt alongside Jake and started applying the pleasantly fragrant oil to his back. His muscles would have to be loosened before she even attempted to align his bones. As she worked on massaging out the knots, he groaned softly.

"That feels good," he said. It crossed his mind what any of the grunts back at Hell's Gate would say if they found out he was getting a massage from a near-naked ten foot tall blue female bodybuilder.

Zha'nelle chuckled. "You may change your mind in a little while."

Her advice wasn't wrong. Zha'nelle was finding every pain pressure point in his body, and driving her entire body weight into each and every one, or so it seemed. It was all he could do not to scream in agony, having to satisfy himself with little grunts and groans. There was no way he was going to admit he was in excruciating pain. It was only by keeping his eyes firmly shut that he could even begin to control it.

"The pressure isn't too much?" she asked. "I can ease off a little, if you choose."

"No," he managed to grate out. "It is fine."

"Good," she said.

She flipped him from one side to the other, working on every inch of his body, with absolutely no sign of embarrassment. Jake started to feel more like a ten foot long piece of tenderised steak than a living being. He opened his eyes once, and gained a very close view of her generous breasts – at least for a Na'vi - and promptly shut his eyes again. The unaccustomed sight was a little too overwhelming to dwell on.

"I will align your bones now," she told him. He breathed out in relief – this torture was going to end soon.

Zha'nelle twisted his body in many different directions, applying sudden pressure to his skeleton and getting it to make alarming crunching noises with the greatest of ease. When she twisted his head savagely one way, then the other, producing the largest cracks of all, he furiously wriggled his toes to make sure that she had not broken his neck.

"We have finished," she announced, and stood up.

He opened his eyes, and took the proffered right hand to help him to his feet. It was then that he realised Zha'nelle had the five-fingered hands of an Avatar, a human-Na'vi hybrid. He stared unbelievingly at her hand, and then at her face.

"Sa'nu! Sa'nu!" yelled a girlish voice. "I hit the target eight times out of eight!"

A young female child tore into the healer's alcove and flung herself at Zha'nelle, who promptly disengaged her hand from Jake's and swept her into an embrace.

"You did, did you?" asked Zha'nelle happily, gazing into her daughter's eyes. "Are you fibbing again?"

"No, I really did it," proclaimed the little girl proudly. "Stxeli'tstal only hit the target five times."

Jake couldn't believe his eyes and ears. This woman had to be an Avatar, but this young girl called her mother. There was even a strong resemblance between the two, apart from Zha'nelle's broken nose. They had to be mother and child. What the hell was going on here?

"Zhake'soolly, this is my daughter Sylwanin," said Zha'nelle proudly. "Sylwanin, Zhake'soolly is the uniltìranyu who is learning to be Omaticaya."

"Everyone knows that, sa'nu," said Sylwanin. She looked him over and said, "Look, sa'nu, he has hands like yours."

"Yes, he does," replied Zha'nelle. "Now, aren't you still supposed to be at archery practice?"

"Srane, sa'nu," said Sylwanin. At least she had stopped lisping, thought Zha'nelle. She had only been doing it to irritate her mother, and promptly stopped when one of the other children said she sounded silly. Her daughter slipped out of her embrace and ran out of the alcove, to return to the temporarily abandoned archery practice.

"How..." began Jake.

"Ask Grace Augustine," interrupted Zha'nelle. "She will explain. Now, how do you feel?"

Much to his surprise, Jake replied, "I feel good." All the little aches and pains that he had only been partially aware of had vanished. "I almost feel as though I am floating."

"Good," replied Zha'nelle. "You know where the hot pool is?" When Jake nodded, she added, "Good. Go there now and soak for at least an hour. You will be a little sore tomorrow, but with movement that feeling will soon go away. Come back in four days and I will correct any remaining problems." She grinned and said, "It will not hurt as much next time."

"Thank Christ for that," he murmured under his breath.

* * *

Ney'tiri found Jake soaking in the hot spring by the lake. "Why are you lazing there?" she snapped. "You should have returned for more lessons."

"The healer told me to do this," he responded reasonably. When Ney'tiri scowled at him, he said, "There is no reason why we can't do language lessons here, is there?"

"No,' admitted Ney'tiri. She looked longingly at the water, and decided to compromise. She sat on the edge of the pool, dangling her feet in the hot water, and then proceeded to grill Jake on his Na'vi. Curiously enough, he did much better answering her questions than usual, due to Jake being more relaxed than usual, probably as he was not being hit by Ney'tiri for the crime of forgetfulness every three minutes.

After the lesson, she commented, "Kalinkey is a good healer, is she not?"

Jake answered, "I saw Zha'nelle, not Kalinkey. Zha'nelle is also a very good healer." At Ney'tiri's sudden anxious look, he added, "Do not worry. I will not betray one of your friends to her enemies. She told me to talk to Grace."

The look of relief on Ney'tiri's face was palpable. "Irayo, Zhake," she said quietly.

It was the first time she had ever been polite to Jake.

* * *

Jake made no mention of the number of fingers on Zha'nelle's hands in his video diary that night. Instead, as soon as he finished recording, he turned to Grace and mentioned he had met a healer named Zha'nelle.

The story she related to him was incredible.

Needless to say, he didn't get much rack time.


	38. Chapter 38

The firelight of the evening gathering had died down to an orange glow, and many of the Omaticaya had retired for the night, including one uniltìranyu named Jake Sully. Zha'nelle had retreated to the healer's alcove to check her supplies. She would have to ask Kalinkey to make up some more massage oil – at the rate she was going through it, what was left would only last a fortnight.

At least Kalinkey had finished working on the drug that took all feeling away, so she would have time to work on something else. She had been testing the different formulations on Tsawlontu, until she came out with a solution that would work reliably. Kalinkey had even worked out the dosages, so that she could predict down to the nearest quarter hour when the effect would wear off.

Tsawlontu was particularly glad that she had finished testing. One formulation had numbed his face for over a day, and it had an unfortunate side effect – massive amounts of slimy drool leaked out of his mouth. It was not a good look.

Kalinkey's mate still didn't look that impressed when he was told the first person to need surgery would thank his sacrifice. It was just as well that the testing had finished, otherwise Tsawlontu might have disappeared in protest for a few weeks.

Zha'nelle looked up to see who had entered. "Kaltxi, Ney'tiri," she said cheerfully. "What brings you here?"

Ney'tiri grimaced, "I need your magic hands, Zha'nelle. My shoulders are tighter than a fully-drawn bowstring."

"Lie down, my sister," smiled Zha'nelle. "I have a little time before I go for Uniluke with Kalinkey."

"Uniluke," said Ney'tiri wistfully, as she lay down.

"You have not recently partaken of the ceremony?" asked Zha'nelle.

"Not for three weeks," admitted the young woman. "Teaching the cursed uniltìranyu has taken all my time. I have had none for myself, or for my sisters."

"That is not good," said Zha'nelle as she felt Ney'tiri's shoulders. "The female spirits in your blood will become restive, and unbalance you." Her muscles and tendons were as rigid as iron rods. "That is why you feel so tense."

As she started rubbing oil into Ney'tiri's shoulders and back, the young woman groaned, and her muscles suddenly unwound. "Eywa, that is good," murmured Ney'tiri. "Irayo.'

"How goes the teaching?" asked Zha'nelle curiously.

Ney'tiri snorted derisively. "He knows nothing about the forest, or Eywa," she said with disgust, but then paused as though in reflection. "Though the uniltìranyu does not complain however hard I push him. If he falls, he gets back up, and tries again. Zhake..." Ney'tiri paused as though she did not want to admit what she was about to say. "...he has no fear."

"So it is not all bad," commented Zha'nelle, smiling a little half-smile. If only Ney'tiri knew what was in store for her.

"No, it is not all bad," echoed Ney'tiri, her mind a thousand miles from here.

"You should seek your sisters, and partake of Uniluke tomorrow night," advised Zha'nelle. "Ninat, Peyral and Seze'nang must miss you."

"I will," promised Ney'tiri sleepily.

* * *

Zha'nelle skipped lightly out of Kelutrel, a pottery crock under one arm. She caught sight of Kalinkey waiting near the lake's edge, bearing a similar burden.

When she caught up, Kalinkey smiled, "Kaltxi, Zha'nelle. Look, I have a jar of tirea'tutee. I brewed it tonight, all by myself."

"That's strange," said Zha'nelle. "I have a kali'weya in my crock. I caught it this afternoon." She tilted her head to one side and smiled back, "Do you think we should take Uniluke? It would be a terrible waste not to."

"It is a lovely night," replied Kalinkey happily. "Eywa would not approve wasting such a combination of tirea'tutee, a kali'weya and a beautiful night."

"Sometimes you talk too much, Kalinkey," said Zha'nelle, placing her burden on the ground. Her arms entwined about her sister's body and they kissed gently.

Kalinkey's laugh rippled out over the water of the lake. "You always were in a hurry to get the end of Uniluke, my love. Come, let us go to our place."

Zha'nelle reached down for her crock and replied, "The end is the best part."

"Come," repeated Kalinkey, pulling at Zha'nelle's arm. The two sisters of the tsumuke'awsiteng disappeared hand in hand into the night.

Their joined laughter echoed out over the still water.

* * *

Jake snapped off the camera, and turned his wheelchair so he could look out the window of the hab module. The floating mountains hung in the night sky, softly illuminated by the blue glow of the gas giant Polyphemus. He touched his unfeeling legs and sighed, before lifting his eyes back to the glorious scene before him, untouchable behind the glass of the window.

Grace placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, making him start slightly. She said kindly, "I know what you are thinking, Jake."

Jake nodded. He would give his soul to be out there, right now.

She continued, "I fell in love with this world over a decade ago, and its beauty still rips my heart out."

"How do you bear it after all this time?" he asked. "It's out there, waiting, but we can't ever touch it."

Grace smiled bitterly and answered, "I don't."

His hand crept up to hers and squeezed it gently. Together, they gazed out the window at the incredible sight, united in their longing.


	39. Chapter 39

"Today you must finish early," said Ney'tiri abruptly.

They were deep in the forest, tracking a solitary male yerik, one of the many young bachelor bucks that had not yet managed to establish a harem within a herd.

Jake asked, "Have I done something wrong?" Although tracking required all his concentration to pick up the faint signs and scents of an animal, he was finding it an enjoyable challenge.

"No!" denied Ney'tiri hotly.

Jake frowned. His teacher seemed on edge, almost a little off, as though something was disturbing her. "Why then?" he asked, not unreasonably.

Ney'tiri's face suddenly flared darker, almost as though she was blushing. Did Na'vi blush? Jake would have to ask Grace if they did. Ney'tiri said, "I prepare for Uniluke."

What kind of explanation was that? Jake had never heard that word before, so he asked, "What is Uniluke?" He thought it sensible to ask. Ney'tiri herself had told him that only skxawng hid their ignorance by not asking of things they do not know or understand.

If possible her face went even darker. "All Na'vi know this," she snapped.

Had Jake stepped into some kind of taboo area? How was he going to find out this stuff unless he asked? He wasn't telepathic, for chrissake. "Well, I don't," he retorted. "You have told me almost everything I know about the Na'vi, and you have never said anything about Uniluke."

She looked away and mumbled something.

"I didn't hear you," said Jake. Was Ney'tiri embarrassed?

"Uniluke is secret women's business!" shouted Ney'tiri, as she stamped a foot angrily, sending a flock of riti soaring into the air from the trees above. Any chance they now had of sneaking up on the yerik had just vanished. Every living creature within at least half a click would have heard Ney'tiri's explosion, and would now be making for quieter and more congenial climes. She crossed her arms and growled, "Skxawng. I say no more."

"Well, why didn't you say so in the first place?" said Jake, his eyes twinkling. She was embarrassed alright. "This part of the forest would not be empty now."

Ney'tiri looked at him suspiciously. "Are you teasing me?"

"Me?" Jake touched his chest with one hand, his wide-open eyes reflecting total feigned innocence.

Something happened that Jake had never expected. Ney'tiri started to laugh.

* * *

Kalinkey lay back in Zha'nelle's arms, as they lazed in the hot pool that morning bathed in the afterglow of Uniluke. She said suddenly, "I wish to have another child. Tsawlontu and I have discussed this."

"It is not wise," answered Zha'nelle sadly. That would mean she could no longer partake of Uniluke with Kalinkey, until she gave birth. In all likelihood, Zha'nelle would also fall pregnant on ceasing Uniluke.

"Is it because of this?" Kalinkey traced the faint scar low on her body. "I am willing to risk it, my sister, as does Tsawlontu."

"No, it is not that," replied Zha'nelle, kissing Kalinkey on her cheek. She was silent for several seconds, knowing the risk she was about to take. "I should have said it is not wise now. Zhake'soolly is the broken one." She waited anxiously for the green paths to grow narrower, the paths that were always in her mind now. To her surprise there was no change, no narrowing of the way to life.

"I thought he might be," commented Kalinkey. "So there is to be war with the tawtute soon."

Zha'nelle agreed sadly. "Srane. I am not sure when, but it is close." Perhaps it was no surprise – Kalinkey was not stupid, and as capable of drawing conclusions as anyone else who had heard the prophecy.

Kalinkey spun in her arms, gave Zha'nelle a dazzling smile and kissed her deeply on the lips. When they broke apart, Kalinkey said softly, "I can wait, my love. It is important that you receive the solace of Uniluke, until the prophecy is complete and you are whole again, free to choose."

"Irayo," whispered Zha'nelle, looking deep into Kalinkey's golden eyes.

* * *

When Jake unlinked, he virtually threw the link unit lid off in his excitement. "Grace!" he yelled. "Have I got news for you!" He dragged himself into his wheelchair, and spun around, looking for her.

"What is it, Marine?" she asked, looking up from her microscope when he wheeled his way into the lab area. Jake was unusually excited - normally he came out of link looking absolutely exhausted.

"You're back in," he said. There was no change of expression on her face as the words failed to penetrate her mind. "You're back in," he repeated. "Mo'at is letting you back into Hometree."

"What!" she shrieked, standing up in astonishment and almost knocking herself out on an overhead cabinet. "I don't believe it!"

"You better," grinned Jake. "Ney'tiri's lessons finished early today, so I went to speak to Mo'at, and talked her into letting you come back."

Grace Augustine couldn't speak a word. She bent down and embraced the Marine, who hugged her back. "Irayo," Grace whispered. "Thank you so much, Jake." She stood up and leaned back against the bench, quickly wiping her eyes to remove any evidence of moisture. She had a reputation to uphold for being a hard-ass, after all. She said, "I'm so proud of you."

Jake felt his own eyes grow a little damp. Grace was proud of him?

* * *

Later that evening, Jake asked, "Grace, there is something I wanted to know. What is Uniluke? Ney'tiri wouldn't tell me."

The head of the RDA science program sprayed the mouthful of coffee she was drinking all over the marine. It wasn't such a waste for two reasons – the first being that it was really bad coffee, and the second was that it might encourage Jake to change his t-shirt.

"I'm not surprised she didn't tell you," said Grace, after she wiped her mouth. "It's secret women's business."

Jake made a sad puppy dog face at her, making her chuckle. She glanced over her shoulder – Trudy and Norm were in the other half of site-twenty-six, being suspiciously quiet, although she had heard the occasional giggle over the last half-hour or so. "Ok," said Grace quietly, "But you mustn't tell anyone I told you."

"Cross my heart and hope to die," replied Jake, making the cross sign on his chest.

"Zha'nelle told me about it in one of her last e-mails," said Grace. "It's how the Na'vi women control their fertility. It's based around the social construct they have called tsumuke'awsiteng, or sisters of the circle. Each circle has two to four members."

"Oh, I know about that," said Jake. "Ney'tiri mentioned it once. Ninat, Peyral and Seze'nang are in her tsumuke'awsiteng – they are her closest friends. So what is this Uniluke ceremony like?"

"It's rather simple, really," answered Grace. "Around once a fortnight, each circle leaves Hometree for somewhere private, drink tirea'tutee – a combination hallucinogen and intoxicating liquor – until they can't stand up, and then are stung with a kali'weya – the same arachnoid used in Uniltaron. The combination suppresses ovulation, and also keeps their hormone levels under control. If a Na'vi woman isn't receiving Uniluke, or alternatively having regular sex with their life-mate, she suffers what humans would call uber-PMS. Zha'nelle said there was no way she ever wanted to feel that ever again – although female Avatars don't get it unless they are in their bodies for an extended period of time. That's one of the reasons why we limit the link time."

Jake frowned. He couldn't see what Ney'tiri was making a fuss about. "That seems pretty harmless," he said. "It sounds like a sort of girl's night out more than anything else, with a little side-benefit of taking the Pill. I can't see why Ney'tiri was so embarrassed."

"Ah, there is something I didn't tell you, Jake," admitted Grace, blushing a little. "The combination of the sting and tirea'tutee is a powerful female aphrodisiac."

"Their life-mates must appreciate that part of it, then," commented Jake thoughtfully.

Shaking her head, Grace said, "No, Jake. They don't."

It took a little while for the penny to drop, along with Jake's jaw.

"What!" he shouted, before lowering his voice to almost a whisper. "You mean every Na'vi woman is lesbian? Even Mo'at the dragon-lady?"

Grace nodded.

"Holy fuck," he murmured. How the hell was he ever going to look any of them in the face again?


	40. Chapter 40

"Mìnkxetse, may I talk with you?" asked Jake. Somehow he had successfully managed to avoid Ney'tiri this morning.

The male looked up from the knife blade he was sharpening to reply, "Yes, Zhake'soolly. How may I help you?"

How the hell did he say this without turning dark blue? It turned out the Na'vi did blush, as Grace informed him after last night's revelations. "There are things I want to know, things I cannot ask Ney'tiri, about, um...mating."

The reaction he received from Mìnkxetse was totally different than expected. Instead of collapsing with laughter from his display of ignorance about such a vital subject, Mìnkxetse put down the sharpening stone, sheathed his knife and said, "A very serious subject, Zhake'soolly. It is good that you ask, and I am honoured that you have chosen to ask me. What do you wish to know?"

"Everything," said Jake, trying not to blush. "I am ignorant of everything regarding this matter."

Mìnkxetse grinned and slapped Jake on the shoulder. "Come, then. We will talk in private." He looked about him, adding, "Somewhere where we cannot be overheard by a woman. They always make such a fuss over this thing, clouding it with secrecy as special women's business. They are not like men, to talk about important things calmly and with thought."

Jake detected a twinkle in his eye, and said, "I imagine you would not say those words before Zha'nelle."

The big male chuckled and smiled ruefully. "No, I would not. If she heard such words from me, my life would not be worth living for a week or longer. Are tawtute women like this also?"

Jake's face took on the same rueful expression. "I am afraid so."

"Then we have something in common, as men," answered Mìnkxetse. "The vexing question of how to live peacefully with women – a question at which my brother Tsawlontu fails spectacularly."

Jake grinned. The fights between Kalinkey and Tsawlontu were legendary, as were their reconciliations.

* * *

"Are you looking for Zhake'soolly, Ney'tiri?" asked Zha'nelle. The young woman was looking a little harried.

Ney'tiri answered, "Srane. I cannot find him anywhere."

"I saw him go off with Mìnkxetse not long ago," said Zha'nelle.

"Wiya!" swore Ney'tiri hotly. "He is supposed to hunt today, with me. The skxawng cannot be trusted to do anything right."

"Perhaps there was something he wished to ask my mate," suggested Zha'nelle gently. She had clearly seen the delicate flush of embarrassment on Jake's face when he was talking to Mìnkxetse. "Something that he could only ask a fellow male."

"I cannot think of anything that the skxawng would need to speak to a male of," growled Ney'tiri.

Zha'nelle coughed significantly and wiggled her eyebrows. "There are some things a male does not ask a female."

"Oh," said Ney'tiri. Suddenly her eyes opened wide, and she repeated, "Oh!" Her face flushed dark blue. "I had not thought of this."

"If he is to truly become Omaticaya, and be a dreamwalker no longer," said Zha'nelle, "He must know such things."

A brief flash of anger erupted into Ney'tiri's mind. She did not want to think of Zhake looking at women, or talking to them. How dare he even consider such things! It was wrong, so wrong for him to do so. Zhake was not Omaticaya, he was uniltìranyu, and should not have been thinking of choosing a woman. "I do not wish to know of this," she muttered.

"How is Tsu'tey?" asked Zha'nelle.

"Who?" asked Ney'tiri, preoccupied with her thoughts about the skxawng.

Zha'nelle suppressed a knowing smile and said, "It doesn't matter. Did you partake of Uniluke last night?"

"Yes," Ney'tiri said with a grin. "You were right. I had left Uniluke far too long – it was good to spend time with my sisters, instead of worrying about Zhake."

* * *

Mìnkxetse laboriously described the mechanics of Na'vi sex to Jake – it seemed much the same as normal human heterosexual intercourse, with the addition of tsahaylu, so Jake thought in the extremely unlikely prospect that he would ever acquire a Na'vi mate, he would have no difficulty with that part.

"How often do you mate?" asked Jake curiously.

"Three or four times," replied Mìnkxetse.

"A week?"

Now Mìnkxetse looked shocked, and spluttered, "No, three or four times a night. Zha'nelle becomes unhappy if there is less lovemaking. More if she is feeling affectionate."

"How do you feel about Zha'nelle partaking of Uniluke?" asked Jake. This is what he really wanted to know – but three or four times a night? The Na'vi must be like absolute machines in the sack.

"It is good," said Mìnkxetse. "She has time to spend with her sister Kalinkey doing female things, while I enjoy my daughter, and talk with my brother Tsawlontu without female interruption." He grinned and added, "I also get to sleep an entire night through."

The sleep-deprived Jake could understand the attraction of an uninterrupted night. He was usually up before dawn, to get sufficient time to tend to his human body before he linked. Grace had been concerned about his weight loss, particularly the reduction in muscle mass. What with making his video logs, and other housekeeping chores, he was lucky to be getting four or five hours a night. He had got more sleep when he was out on the line in Venezuela.

"But she shares her body with another, her sister Kalinkey," said Jake.

"Ah," said Mìnkxetse. "Often young men think this, before they make tsahaylu, not wishing to share their mate with the tsumuke'awsiteng. I know beyond knowing that Zha'nelle loves me above all others – except perhaps our daughter Sylwanin. That is enough for me."

That was the difference, thought Jake. Tsahaylu. The sure knowledge of a mate's love, that was the kicker that made all the difference. "I think I see, Mìnkxetse."

The big male had been watching Jake's features as he absorbed his words. This one thought about what he was told – he actually listened, unlike most of the young men. Mìnkxetse wondered what it was like to be thrust into a life about which one knew nothing, such as Jake amongst the Omaticaya. He suspected that he would fail at the test, but for a moment Mìnkxetse Saw in Zhake'soolly an iron core of determination, a desire to rise to every challenge and never give up. He was shaken by what he Saw – few Na'vi were like this young dreamwalker – and wondered what Eywa had planned for him.

"Is there anything else you wish to know?" asked Mìnkxetse respectfully.

Jake shook his head and said, "You have given me much to think upon, Mìnkxetse. Thank you for sharing this knowledge with me."

* * *

"We do not hunt today," said Ney'tiri. "It is too late now."

Jake was a little surprised – it was still only mid-morning. He was also surprised that she did not tear a strip off him for being late. Rather than being angry, as would be normal for one of his many transgressions, Ney'tiri was looking thoughtful, perhaps even introspective.

"Why not?" he asked.

Ney'tiri said quietly, as though she was enjoying a private joke, "You will see. Come."

She led him a short distance into the forest, not far at all, until they reached a glade filled with ferns, and then commanded, "Wait."

They waited there in silence for several minutes, when the background noise of the forest died away, and it quickly grew dark. The forest was lit by the bioluminescent plant-life, while the sky became the blackest Jake had ever seen it. Even the stars came out, a blaze of twinkling points of light sprayed the sky. Ney'tiri said, "It is hì'i txon mì trr – little night within day."

An eclipse, it must be the bulk of Polyphemus blotting out the sunlight of Alpha Centauri A, he thought. The orange glow of its binary companion, Alpha Centauri B, hung low on the horizon, barely providing any illumination.

"Touch the kenten," she whispered, gesturing to a non-descript lizard perched on a fern stem.

Jake cautiously lifted his hand to the lizard, but before he could touch it, a brilliantly luminescent circular fan unfolded from its back and it floated away from him, more like a small helicopter than a living creature. It alighted on another fern, out of reach, and the fan folded instantly away. When Ney'tiri touched another one, causing it to take off, Jake realised the glade was filled with these non-descript little fan-lizards.

Ney'tiri smiled at the sight, and then ran into the ferns, yelling and waving her arms. A veritable squadron of the glowing fan-lizards took off, the luminescence of their fans lighting up the glade.

A stab of emotion sliced open Jake's heart, at the sight of Ney'tiri's simple delight and exuberance. She turned to face him, her face blazing with the joy of living. My god, she is so beautiful, thought Jake.


	41. Chapter 41

Zha'nelle sat cross-legged on the rock overlooking the lake of the Omaticaya, her eyes shut, feeling the flow of life energy through Eywa all around her. She often came here now, when her duties to both the clan and her daughter permitted.

"Oel ngati kameie, Ney'tiri," she said, without moving. Zha'nelle smiled as she felt Ney'tiri jump in surprise at being detected.

"Oel ngati kameie," echoed Ney'tiri. "I would have words with you, Zha'nelle."

"Of course," replied the healer. "The sister of my sister is always welcome."

Ney'tiri sat alongside the healer, assuming the same cross-legged pose. There were several minutes of silence while Zha'nelle waited for her to speak. Eventually, Ney'tiri said, "I am confused."

Zha'nelle inclined her head, indicating that she had heard Ney'tiri speak, but did not answer her.

"I am to become Tsahik, and mate with the olo'eyktan that will succeed my father, but..." Ney'tiri paused, unable to complete the sentence, or to name her intended mate.

"Your heart is given to another," completed Zha'nelle. "You respect Tsu'tey, but you do not love him, and he does not love you." She turned and opened her eyes, gazing calmly at the young woman.

"How..." started Ney'tiri.

"It is there for all to See, if only they would look," replied Zha'nelle. "Every time your gaze rests upon Zhake'soolly, your face lights up."

"I cannot mate with him," objected Ney'tiri. "He is uniltìranyu, not Omaticaya. I am promised to another."

"So then do not mate with Zhake'soolly," replied Zha'nelle calmly. "Even though he is to become Omaticaya this day."

"But I cannot..." Ney'tiri's voice broke with emotion.

Zha'nelle took Ney'tiri's hands in hers, her ten digits overlapping eight. "Sister of my sister," she said, "One cannot choose who one loves, or be forced by others to love. You made no promise, you swore no oaths."

Ney'tiri shook her head. "Ma'sempul promised me to Tsu'tey."

"Ney'tiri te Tskaha Mo'at'ite made no promise," repeated Zha'nelle. "Only Eywa knows where the heart may be given before the gift is made. It is up to Ney'tiri te Tskaha Mo'at'ite to decide to whom she grants her gift, no other."

The young woman did not speak immediately. "Help me," she whispered.

"Then tell me what you know of Zhake'soolly," asked Zha'nelle

"Although he is not Omaticaya, he has learnt our ways well," recounted Ney'tiri. "Zhake has no fear, of anything. He is strong, a good hunter, and flies his ikran well. He is kind, and gentle. Though he says little, Zhake listens to what I have to say." She paused.

"There is more that you do not tell me," commented Zha'nelle.

"Zhake Sees me for who I am," Ney'tiri said wonderingly. She had not realised this before, although she knew she had known this fact for some time. Without thinking, she murmured, "I love him."

Zha'nelle asked, "What can you tell me of Tsu'tey?"

Ney'tiri said slowly, "I am promised to Tsu'tey." She could say no more.

Zha'nelle's soft laugh rippled through the air. "You do not need my advice, sister of my sister. You have already Chosen. All you need do is to live your choice."

* * *

Mo'at glared at Zha'nelle. She had seen the expression on her daughter's face, when Zhake'soolly was welcomed as an Omaticaya, after he had passed through Uniltaron. "I will not have this seed grow," she growled. "Ney'tiri's future is decided – she will be Tsahik after me, and mate of the olo'eyktan."

"You are right," said Zha'nelle. "Ney'tiri's future has been decided." But not by Mo'at, and not by Eytukan.

"You have Seen this?" demanded Mo'at.

"Srane." A strange half-smile was on Zha'nelle's face, as she considered her words. Strangely enough, Mo'at was right – if the Na'vi were victorious, Ney'tiri would indeed become Tsahik of the Omaticaya, in time.

Mo'at's eyes narrowed at the healer. There was something that the woman was hiding. "What do you not tell me?"

Zha'nelle shuddered, as if she had been drenched in icy-cold water. She felt a triumphal change in the life energy around her, and a picture came to her inner-mind's eye, of two young Na'vi adults in the grove of the Tree of Voices.

"_...I have already chosen, but this woman must also choose me," said Jake._

"_She already has," replied Ney'tiri._

The image was as vivid as it was fleeting. Zha'nelle's vision swam before her, reforming into the face of the Tsahik of the Omaticaya. She gasped, "The broken one is empty no more."

Mo'at hissed, "You lie."

"The spear has been cast and cannot be recalled," whispered Zha'nelle. "War is nigh." She turned away, making to leave the alcove of the Tsahik.

The Tsahik grabbed at Zha'nelle's arm, gripping it hard to stop the healer from leaving, and force her to tell the truth. Zha'nelle turned back to Mo'at to say, "I once spoke to you of a tawtute woman named Kassandra. Do you remember?"

Mo'at remembered. Kassandra was the prophet who no-one believed.

"Do not repeat the mistake of those that did not listen," said Zha'nelle. Her face was sad. "Release me, for I wish to spend this last night of peace with my mate, and my daughter, and pretend that the sun will rise tomorrow, on a day like any other."

Reluctantly, Mo'at's hand fell from Zha'nelle's arm, and she watched the cursed healer leave the alcove.


	42. Chapter 42

Zha'nelle did not see the fight between Tsu'tey and Zhake, nor Ney'tiri's fierce defence of her mate. She knew that nothing she within her power could affect the outcome. The war-party rode out – without her – destroyed the RDA bulldozer, and slew the accompanying tawtute patrol.

Instead, she helped Kalinkey prepare for the inevitable flood of wounded that would come, sooner or later.

* * *

Grace exploded, "What?"

Selfridge repeated, "I'm shutting down the Avatar program. It hasn't delivered peace with the natives, and that forlorn hope was the only thing it keeping it going. I can't afford to have it continuing to piss money away to no good purpose. Your precious natives just torched the road making dozers and killed an entire patrol, for chrissake."

"What about the research programs? The last twenty years of my life?"

Selfridge sighed. He knew this conversation was always going to be difficult, but then that was why he was paid the big bucks to make these kinds of decisions, and deliver the bad news. "You've had your playtime, Grace. It's time to go home – I've issued the orders to transfer you and the entire Avatar team on the next shuttle flight. You have plenty of material to write papers for the rest of your life and become an academic tin-god in Podunk U. Now go and pack like a good girl, and let me do the work I was brought here to do." He made a shooing gesture, as though to brush her out of his life.

Trying to contain her fury, Grace clenched her fists, but there was nothing she could do or say. She whirled about and stormed out of the administrator's office.

And now for Selfridge's next appointment. At least Colonel Quaritch was a lot calmer to deal with than Grace, even though he was a shit-scary psychopath.

* * *

Ney'tiri knelt silently by the empty body of Zhake'soolly, waiting for his spirit to return, her eyes dry. She knew in her heart of hearts that all she had to do was wait, and her mate would come back to her.

* * *

Grace poured herself another drink. Perhaps if she was lucky, she would die of alcohol poisoning. She sighed. None of the science team could hold their liquor, not like Westin could. Now there was a drinking partner. Around her the lab bustled with activity, the wrong kind of activity. Gear was being packed into boxes and tidied away, samples were placed into freezer boxes, and hardware powered off. It looked like this was how her life's work was going to end – with a whimper, and not a bang.

She slurred, "They bulldozed Utral Aymokriyä on purpose, to create a response from the Na'vi. Selfridge and Quaritch are fabricating a war to get what they want."

Jake agreed, "Yep, that's how it's done." He picked up Phred Palmer's seminal work on the Na'vi, and threw it to the ground. "When people are sitting on shit that you want, you make them your enemy. Then you're justified in taking it."

Trudy burst into the bio-lab. She announced breathlessly, "Quaritch is going to hit Hometree."

* * *

Ney'tiri cried out in relief as her mate began to stir. "Ma'Zhake, you have returned to me."

As his eyes opened, her next words were stilled by the intensity of his gaze. Jake grabbed her upper arm and said tightly, "We have no time. The sky-people are coming to destroy Kelutrel. I must warn the clan."

"Ma'sempul, ma'sa'nok are below," she replied. "We must hurry."

* * *

Zha'nelle was returning to Kelutrel, bearing the leaves of many medicinal plants in her basket, to see the clan gathered at the entrance, surrounding the place of execution. She narrowed her eyes to see Zhake'soolly and Grace bound, ready for the blood-letting reserved for traitors to the clan. She dropped her burden and ran for the edge of the crowd, heading straight for Kalinkey. A terrible dread filled in her heart.

Grabbing her sister's shoulder and spinning her about, she demanded, "Where is Sylwanin?"

Kalinkey answered grimly, "Inside, playing with Stxeli'tstal in the sleeping quarters. I did not wish them to see this."

Before Zha'nelle could reply, the forest started to echo with the roar of kunsips approaching – many of them. She flashed on an image half-remembered from Uniltaron, of Kelutrel burning and falling. Zha'nelle tightened her grip on her sister's should and hissed, "Get as many away from Kelutrel as you can."

Panic rose in Kalinkey's face. "What Zhake'soolly said is true?" When Zha'nelle nodded in reply, Kalinkey gasped, "The children!"

Her sister started towards Kelutrel. As the kunsip swung around Keltrel, hovering above the lake, Zha'nelle snarled, "No! I will get them. The clan will need your skills, now more than ever."

It seemed that Zha'nelle had spoken the only words that could have stopped Kalinkey from going back in.

* * *

"Hey look, Colonel," said the Dragon gunner, pointing to one of the displays. A Na'vi woman was running into the huge tree, despite the teargas rounds spraying their semi-toxic irritants throughout the tree-village. All the other smurfs were running out. "She must be one tough bitch."

Quaritch glanced at the monitor and briefly saw the woman, a heavy bow slung over her torso. "I wouldn't worry about her, son," said the colonel. "She is carrying an offensive weapon. That makes her a legitimate combatant. "

The pilot announced, "Sir, they've opened fire." Volleys of arrows were clattering against the cockpit glass, ricocheting off it in all directions.

"Ok, it seems these dumbfucks have to be taught a lesson," said Quaritch. "Switch to incendiaries."

* * *

Zha'nelle felt a great wave of heat at her back, and the fabric of Kelutrel shuddered, as she climbed the central spiral to the sleeping quarters. She chanced a look down to see a raging inferno below her. There would be no escape that way. The flames would rapidly rise through the interior and turn the entire tree into a flaming chimney.

Sylwanin and Stxeli'tstal were clutching each other in fright. The whole of Kelutrel was shaking and groaning with each new missile hit, the huge living timbers groaning as though they were in pain. Sylwanin caught sight of her mother. "Sa'nu, w-what is happening?" shook her voice nervously.

"We are going flying, all of us," replied Zha'nelle calmly. She snatched the riding harness from her chey, unslung her bow and donned it over her torso, thanking Eywa she had made the straps far too long for carrying just one child. "Come here, both of you. You will have to wear this, so I can carry you to the ikran roost."

Sylwanin said nothing – she knew something was wrong, but did not disobey her mother. Stxeli'tstal, a serious little boy, hung back a little and said doubtfully, "I have never been flying before."

Somehow, Zha'nelle managed to say coolly and without panic, "Your mother asked me to take you."

He nodded, and allowed her to do up the bone buckles, fastening the two children to her body. Zha'nelle straightened her back , lifting their weight off the floor and causing her to stagger slightly. Zha'nelle grabbed her bow, and with a moment's hesitation swept her kit-bag from her chey, giving it to her daughter to hold, and launching her body up the central spiral.

Soon every muscle was shrieking under the demands she was placing it under. She could see tsamsiyu above her, climbing rapidly to the ikran roost, while hot air raced up the core of Kelutrel from the flames below. Sylwanin whimpered, "Sa'nu, I'm frightened."

Zha'nelle had no breath to answer her daughter, merely redoubling her efforts, and feeling her skin starting to blister from the heat. She burst out onto the ikran roost branch, flames roaring up past the entrance in their rapid rise to the crown of Kelutral. A cracking roar came from below and Zha'nelle felt Kelutrel shift beneath her feet – Hometree was burning and falling, just as it had from within her vision. Zha'nelle opened her mouth to call for Äie'reypay, but there was no need – he was already there, just as the other ikrans launched with their riders.

The exhausted woman scrambled onto the neck of her ikran, feeling him complain from the unexpected burden of the two children. "Fly," she asked.

Äie'reypay did not try to gain height, not with the weight he was carrying. Instead he plunged down, flapping his wings and diving to drive ahead of the falling forest giant, flying straight for the ground. Zha'nelle's ears were filled with the roar of Kelutrel falling around her, and the sound of the two children screaming with terror. At what seemed the last moment Äie'reypay spread his wings to pull out of the dive, skimming over the ground with only feet to spare, his wing membranes thrumming with the speed of the airflow. Zha'nelle sensed rather than saw huge timbers falling around her, as the crown of Kelutrel struck the ground and shattered.

* * *

The gunner on the Dragon had spotted the last banshee launch from the boughs of Hometree, and out of curiosity zoomed his targeting camera on the rider.

He was shocked to recognise the woman that had run into the village. She was carrying two kids in some kind of harness, holding on to her banshee with her left while her right was firmly gripping her bow. She must have run into the gas to pull them out, and when escape was cut off by fire, carried them all the way to the heights of the tree to ride her banshee out of trouble. If she was typical of the Na'vi, they were not going to be any pushover in real combat.

What was even scarier was that she looked up directly into the camera, her eyes drilling into the lens, and her lips moved, forming words. His recon training had taught him to lip read in English, Spanish and Mandarin - the words he saw on her lips scared the shit out of him.

Quaritch saw him looking pale, and asked him, "Carter, you're not turning into a smurf lover, are you son?"

"No sir," Carter snapped out, trying to stop shaking inside.

The English words the woman spoke were, "You will die in flames, Carter."

* * *

Zha'nelle leant against the neck of Äie'reypay, sending waves of love to her ikran through the link of tsahaylu, while the two children sobbed at her feet. He had landed only half a click form the ruin of kelutrel, unable to climb with the burden he was asked to carry.

She broke the link to kneel and stroke her daughter's hair in comfort "I am afraid that was the last time Äie'reypay will carry you, ma'ite. I had to promise him," said Zha'nelle.

Sylwanin wiped her eyes to say haltingly, "Srane, sa'nu. I understand." She stood, and hauled the trembling Stxeli'tstal tohis feet.

The ikran launched itself into the air as Zha'nelle said, "We must go back to help the clan." She started to jog towards the burning ruin of Kelutrel, the two children following her unquestioningly.

* * *

There were many dead, and more injured. Too many of the later would soon join the dead in the embrace of Eywa, no matter what Zha'nelle could do. Miraculously, Kalinkey, Tsawlontu and Mìnkxetse all survived unharmed, the two mates of the healers labouring under their direction. There was little enough they could do, for all their healing supplies had been lost with the fall of Kelutrel.

The burns from the incendiary missiles were the worst – fortunately there were only a small number of those, as most of those that were burnt did not survive. Too often their only available response was to grant the blow of grace to end their suffering. What worried Zha'nelle even more were the numbers of adults that were wandering aimlessly, in shock at the loss of Kelutrel. Many of them were being led to safety by children, who seemed much more resilient to the horror than she would have expected.

They soon determined that the best course of action was to send their mates to the nearest clans, to seek assistance in bringing more healers and supplies.

"Irayo," murmured Kalinkey, as they strapped a broken arm to the body of a young warrior.

"What for?" asked Zha'nelle.

Kalinkey replied, "For saving my son." She fell silent while she tied off the dressing, until she added, "I was sure that you had gone to your death."

Zha'nelle barked an ironic laugh. "So had I," she answered bluntly.

The Tsahik came by, her face grieving. "Mo'at," said Zha'nelle. "We must get the injured away from here. A wind shift will come this evening, pushing the flames towards us. I do not wish to lose more Omaticaya."

Mo'at nodded. "We go to Vitraya Ramunong. There is nowhere else." She turned to give orders to a warrior, to gather all able-bodied men, and turned back. "Is this what you Saw, Zha'nelle?"

"Srane," answered the healer.

"It is worse than I could ever have imagined," answered Mo'at.


	43. Chapter 43

The wounded that could not walk were carried on pa'li, or for those that were children, in the arms of their parents – those that had survived. Zha'nelle's heart broke for those that no longer had parents, whose world had been pulled out from under them. She feared that there would be many more.

Mìnkxetse had returned from the Hometree of the secretive Tipani clan, bearing precious healing supplies, and the promise of more. Now he was leading one of the pa'li. "Zha'nelle," he asked, "I saw you run into Kelutrel, when all others were running out. Had you Seen that you would save our daughter, and the son of my brother and your sister?"

Zha'nelle had wondered if her mate was going to ask this question. "No, my love, " she replied. "I do not See my own fate, only the fate of others." She flashed her teeth at Mìnkxetse. "It is just as well – if I foresaw all my life, it would be very boring living it. Although," she mused, "today was a little too exciting for my taste."

"I'm not sure exciting is the correct word," commented her mate drily, appearing relaxed at her words. Inside, however, his guts were churning. He was fairly certain that he would have been paralysed by fear. How she had managed to keep her head under the dual threats of incineration or crushing he had no idea.

"You are right, ma'Mìnkxetse," said Zha'nelle. "I was terrified."

He looked into her eyes and saw no trace of fear. "I saw your face after Kelutrel fell," he said doubtfully. "You were calm, focused on helping the injured. How could you have been afraid?"

She gazed back at him to say, "I was afraid of failing, of living when I knew I could have saved them. I was afraid of seeing the reproach in your eyes if I had done nothing to save Sylwanin."

Mìnkxetse saw nothing but naked honesty in her eyes. Many Na'vi of his acquaintance would have boasted of their courage, or downplayed it. None that he could think of would have admitted they had acted out of fear.

That was true bravery.

* * *

It took over a day for the column to travel to Vitraya Ramunong. Many times they had to stop, when another of the sorely injured died.

They could not spare the time to bury the dead properly. Instead, they piled stones on top of the shells of the departed. The cairns the clan left behind on that trail between Kelutral and Vitraya Ramunong, in time, would become the markers that defined the fya'o gawvik Omaticayaru – the Way of Sorrow of the Omaticaya.

* * *

Zha'nelle did not join the clan in mourning the fallen at Vitraya Ramunong, nor did her sister Kalinkey. They were too busy tending to the living.

She did not begrudge those that had the need to grieve. She was lucky – her child and mate were alive, as were those of her sister. Mourning the dead was necessary, so that the Omaticaya could regain their balance and move forward.

Besides, she had an inkling that something might happen.

However, Zha'nelle was not expecting Zhake'soolly, the broken one, to come riding in on the back of the largest aerial predator on the planet, as Toruk Makto.

She was definitely surprised.


	44. Chapter 44

"Grace," whispered Zha'nelle, as the dreamwalkers carried the wounded tawtute woman and her Avatar to the base of the Tree of Souls. They did not hear her, for she was only one of many of the Omaticaya.

Hoping beyond hope, she had joined with the clan in trying to help Grace Augustine pass through the Eye of Eywa, but unlike them she knew...there was always hope. Zha'nelle refused to think anything else. There was always the chance that for a first time her vision would be false, or misleading. She had not known that Zhake'soolly would be Toruk Makto, only that he was to be critical in the war against the tawtute.

Grace could live.

So Zha'nelle felt for the life force all around her, willing it to help her friend, along with the others of the Omaticaya.

When Mo'at stopped the chant, she heard Grace say, "I'm with her, Jake. She's real."

It was then that Zha'nelle knew.

* * *

Grace plummeted down the tunnel of light, towards the welcome of Eywa. She felt the bonds to her body unravel like a ball of string given to a kitten, when she heard a gravelly voice.

"Hi Grace."

"Westin?"

* * *

The speech that Zhake'soolly gave after the death of Grace Augustine was stirring, even inspirational. Zha'nelle, like all the other Omaticaya, was seduced by its call to action against the tawtute. She felt the need to leap on the back of Äie'reypay and ride out to gather the clans, to make war and avenge the dead of Kelutrel.

However, she did not follow the messengers of Toruk Makto. There was something else she had to do, so she resisted the clarion call of Zhake's words.

Zha'nelle approached the base of the Tree of Souls. "I wish to honour my friend, Grace Augustine," she told Mo'at. "One who knew her well should lay her to rest."

The Tsahik inclined her head in assent. "Srane," agreed Mo'at. "It is good."

The Avatar was still breathing shallowly, its heart still pumping blood futilely around the empty body. Zha'nelle knelt by the shell, and drew her knife, ready to quiet the body so Grace's spirit could rest peacefully in the embrace of Eywa.

A male uniltìranyu standing by Mo'at that Zha'nelle did not know reached out to hold her shoulder and cried out, "What are you doing?"

"I am quieting this empty shell," replied Zha'nelle. Why was this strange one in his ugly coverings making such a noise? Although, she did admit, his Na'vi was excellent.

"But you're killing her Avatar," he objected.

"Kehe," she replied reasonably. "Spirit is all that matters, and that of Grace Augustine is gone to Eywa. This body is of no use to her now, as is her tawtute body."

The annoying one snapped, "You don't even know her."

Zha'nelle stood to say, "Grace held my life in her hands these last five years and more." She held up her open left hand, displaying all five fingers. She did not wish to fight this uniltìranyu, not in this sacred place, for she could see that he had been a dear friend of Grace. "If not me, then who?" She spun the knife in her right hand to offer the hilt to this male.

The eyes of the uniltìranyu opened wide as he observed her alien hands. "Who _are_ you?" he demanded.

"I am called Zha'nelle te Manitowabi Eywa'ite," she answered. "Grace laid my tawtute body to rest, so it is fitting I render the same service for her."

Mo'at interrupted, "It is because of Zha'nelle that we knew it was possible for a tawtute spirit to pass through the Eye of Eywa into her uniltìrantokx body." She sighed. "Though for Grace it was not Eywa's will."

"Come, give me your name, stranger," said Zha'nelle. "I See that you loved Grace. Could you not help me lay her to rest?"

"Norm Spellman," said the uniltìranyu. He seemed more stunned than anything else.

"Oel ngati kameie, Norm Spellman."

The uniltìranyu echoed, "Oel ngati kameie."

"May I proceed, Norm Spellman?" asked Zha'nelle.

It was with reluctance that the uniltìranyu agreed. Zha'nelle murmured the prayer for the dead, as she gently slid her knife beneath the Avatar's ribcage, into its heart, to give it a sudden twist. The Avatar did not even stiffen in pain, but merely let a shallow breath out, and did not breathe again.

The two friends of Grace carried her bodies to a place that overlooked Vitraya Ramunong, and dug a grave. They laid the two bodies on their sides, placing the arms of the Avatar about Grace's tawtute body, before placing many flowers about them, together with a single atokirina. The Tsahik came to sing for the departed, and prayed for her rebirth once her spirit healed from its pain.

"Eywa ngahu, Grace," whispered Zha'nelle, as she filled in the grave.

* * *

The next morning, there was another task that Zha'nelle had to perform before the ikran riders returned. She reclaimed the kitbag from Sylwanin, and called for Äie'reypay.

She flew to the great ravine, to the location of the crashed kunsip. The tree growing through the rotor was no longer a sapling, but little else had changed. The skull of Tuçek, G. still grinned gruesomely out the cockpit window.

Zha'nelle removed a tool from the tawtute kitbag, and started on her self-appointed charge. The whine of the electric screwdriver nagged at her sensitive ears like a particularly annoying insect, as she carefully removed one screw after another. Rigging some kind of strapping for carrying a complete sheet of armoured glass on her ikran was not going to be easy.

* * *

There was a kunsip landed on a flat piece of ground near the Tree of Souls. In the absence of any devastation, Zha'nelle presumed that the pilot had defected from the tawtute, along with Zhake'Soolly, Norm Spellman and Grace, so she spiralled Äie'reypay in for a landing next to it..

The pilot was sitting on the edge of the cargo area, swinging her legs freely above the ground. Her assault rifle was leaning casually against the rear of the cargo area, within easy reach. Curiously enough, Zha'nelle recognised the pilot.

"You are Truti Tsakon," said Zha'nelle in 'Ìnglìsì. She had forgotten how small the tawtute really were.

"Hi, Janelle," replied Trudy, laconically. "Long time no see." She didn't look at all surprised to see Zha'nelle.

"There is saying very like that in Na'vi," said Zha'nelle. "How long have you known?"

"Since the schoolhouse, when you loaded Grace's Avatar onto my chopper," replied Trudy. "I thought you were dead before then."

"Everyone except Grace thought so also," said Zha'nelle.

"Pardon me asking," said Trudy, "But why are you carrying the right-hand cockpit windows glass from a Samson SA-2 chopper under your arm? Where the hell did you get it? I can't imagine you just rocked up to the Hell's Gate commissary and asked for one."

"There is a crashed kunsip near great ravine," said Zha'nelle. "A pilot called Tuçek died there. My need was greater than his – I need to show Na'vi how to kill tawtute." She gave a significant look at Trudy's chopper. "If you are to fight in battle, your kunsip must look different, otherwise Na'vi may kill you, only."

"Tuçek," commented Trudy with disgust. "He was a crap pilot – never kept an eye on his six. I wasn't surprised when he didn't come back." She scratched the back of her neck, adding, "I've been thinking about the little problem of IFF, but I don't have any paint. I don't suppose you have any, hey Janelle?"

"Zha'nelle," corrected the healer absent-mindedly. "Eywa will provide."

* * *

An hour later, Zha'nelle had rounded up a fair number of the children of the Omaticaya, including her daughter, who were now engaged in making large quantities of blue and white face-paint. They were even now engaged in a serious discussion on the appropriate colour scheme to apply to the Samson chopper.

It was just has well that Zha'nelle had organised the children to paint the kunsip. The first warriors of the Pa'li clan of the plains arrived not long after, and viewed both the kunsip and Trudy with hostility and suspicion. It was only the presence of the children that stopped them from attacking.

After that, Zha'nelle took up a guard position, to ensure that no unfortunate incidents occurred.

* * *

Zhake came around that evening accompanied by Ney'tiri, Tsu'tey, and the other leaders of the clans, to examine Trudy's kunsip. He got Trudy to talk about the strengths and weaknesses of the chopper, while Zha'nelle translated. There were endless discussions about arcs of fire of the door guns, and the vulnerable points of the chopper, of which there were all too few.

Zha'nelle added that with care, it was possible to shoot through the cockpit glass and kill the pilot.

"You have done this?" demanded the only female olo'eyktan sharply – the leader of the Ikran clan from the Eastern Sea.

"No," replied Zha'nelle. "Not in the air. I tried this on a broken kunsip."

"I would like to see that," the leader of the Ikran clan sneered.

"Very well."

She proceeded to set up the armoured glass leaning against a tree, and simulated a shot as though she was shooting form directly in front of the chopper. There were ironic laughs from the clan leaders when the arrow ricocheted off the glass, with one comment it seemed as useful as attacking an 'angitsa bull from head on.

Zha'nelle then demonstrated a shot from dead on to the glass, the arrow smashing through the hard transparent material, leaving a hole that would admit a Na'vi fist.

Trudy swore, "Holy fuck. They won't know what hit them." She shivered briefly, and was glad she wasn't facing the massed clans of the Na'vi in the air.


	45. Chapter 45

The sky was beginning to lighten in the east as the Na'vi encampment around Vitraya Ramunong was stirring. Mìnkxetse and Zha'nelle had solemnly applied their war paint, and elaborately braided and beaded each other's hair. It was important that the Na'vi appear their best, so the enemy would know they had no fear, even though it was not true. When they were ready, Zha'nelle woke her daughter.

"What is it, sa'nu?" Sylwanin asked sleepily. "Why are you and sempu wearing paint?"

"We go to fight the tawtute, ma'ite," answered Zha'nelle, holding Sylwanin on her hip. She would soon be too big to carry like this, thought Zha'nelle, and wondered if she would live to see that time.

"Will you be back for dinner?" asked Sylwanin. It was clear that she did not really understand what was happening, and Zha'nelle felt her heart starting to break.

"I don't know," replied Zha'nelle, unable to lie. "We might not be able to come back."

Tears started to form in Sylwanin's eyes. "I don't want you to go, sa'nu. Please tell sa'nu she can't go, sempu."

Underneath his war-paint Mìnkxetse looked almost as distressed as Zha'nelle felt. "I'm sorry, Sylwanin. We have no choice."

Zha'nelle said, "Ma'ite, we want to tell you that you are the most precious one in the word to us, and we love you dearly."

Something of the gravity of the situation had filtered through to Sylwanin. She didn't scream or shout or throw a tantrum, she just wept quietly, and whispered, "I love you too, sa'nu, and you, sempu."

Kalinkey came up to the trio and said, "I'll take good care of Sylwanin, my sister and my brother." It was clear that Tsawlontu had already bid his farewell, for there were drying tears on her cheeks. Zha'nelle kissed her daughter on the forehead, as did Mìnkxetse, before she reluctantly gave Sylwanin to the care of her sister of the tsumuke'awsiteng.

The three adults gazed at each other, unable to say anything else. They all knew what could happen. The impasse was finally broken when Mìnkxetse said, "We must be gone. Eywa ngahu."

Kalinkey whispered, "Eywa ngahu."

Walking away from her daughter was the most difficult thing that Zha'nelle had ever done. The only thing that made it bearable was feeling Mìnkxetse's right hand curling around her left, and holding it tightly.

* * *

The mood of the Na'vi warriors was sombre. They had listened last night to the description of how Kelutrel fell, of the devastating effect of the tawtute weapons. They knew that many would not return, but there was a grim determination that the tawtute had to be defeated if their world was to stay green and flourish – no matter what the cost.

That night Zha'nelle had to repeat much of what she had told to the leaders of the clans, of arcs of fire, the different types of kunsip, of the need to maintain speed and altitude, and never flying in straight and level. There was no questioning of her right to speak, for did not she bear the five fingers of the enemy, like the Toruk Makto? Even Tsu'tey said nothing.

There was little banter this morning, just the warriors quietly checking their gear, and readying their ikran or pa'li for the battle to come.

No signal was necessary to move out – the intimidating roar of the toruk was sign enough. The hundreds of ikran launched into the air, crowding the skies as they strained for height. There were no accidents or collisions – each of the ikran knew how much room they had to give to their fellows.

* * *

It was a beautiful morning. The air was crisp, fresh with the promise of a new day. How ironic, thought Zha'nelle, that there would soon be so much death. The glory of the sight of so many hundreds of ikran and their riders in the air made no impression on her – she was thinking on what was come.

She had discussed with Zhake'soolly the need to have a reserve, to be committed once battle was fully joined. The skies would be too crowded to make full effect of their numbers in the initial strike, she thought, and Zhake had agreed. Some of the older Omaticaya had overheard the discussion, and much to her surprise Zha'nelle found she was to lead the reserve – a full third of the ikran and riders – and commit them to the attack when she felt the time was right. She had not sought this responsibility, and was initially unwilling to accept it.

To her surprise, Tsu'tey said, "Zha'nelle te Manitowabi Eywa'ite is a brave warrior, and knows the strengths and weaknesses of the tawtute and their weapons. I can think of none better to lead the reserve."

There was no more discussion.

* * *

The reserve watched the vanguard swoop on the flock of kunsip, scattering them like a toruk falling on a flight of ikranay. There were cheers when the Na'vi saw almost a third of the kunsip knocked out of the sky, the broken machines destroying themselves in flames.

The cheering soon fell silent, as the Na'vi of the reserve saw the tawtute recover and regroup from the surprise and shock of the initial attack. Ikran and their riders started to fall like rain from the deadliness of the tawtute weapons.

It was time.

Zha'nelle raised her bow and screamed out, "Ìley! Ìley! Ìley!"

She pushed Äie'reypay over in a dive, the sun at her back, plummeting down into the swirling combat, only dimly aware of Mìnkxetse flying on her wingtip. She fixed on a Scorpion gunship pursuing a pair of riders, increasing the angle of dive so Äie'reypay was almost vertical. Relying totally on the bond between ikran and rider, she nocked her arrow, drew and released, almost in one smooth movement.

There was a brief impression of her arrow punching through the cockpit glass, and the pilot slumping over his controls, but that brief impression was all she saw of her target. She flashed past the kunsip, and started to pull out of the dive, fighting to retain altitude. She had no wish to end up as a red smear on the floor of the forest.

All too soon it was not altitude she was fighting for – it was her life. Mìnkxetse had disappeared, and she was on her own, pursued by a Samson kunsip. Tracer rounds filled the air around her, as she jinked and swerved, ducking around the floating mountains, trying to lose the kunsip. It was no good – this pilot was skilled, and it was only going to be a matter of time before she was in the cross-hairs of his door gunner.

Suddenly, the kunsip behind her turned into a ball of flame, as another kunsip painted in blue and white flashed past. She caught a brief glimpse of Trudy in the cockpit of her bird, and then she was gone.

The sky was empty around her.

Zha'nelle had no idea where she was, or where the tawtute were, until she caught sight of the stone arches above Vitraya Ramunong directly below her.

There was no time to gain height for another diving attack. She turned, and flew Äie'reypay head on back into the approaching battle.


	46. Chapter 46

She tried to mask her approach by skimming one of the flying mountains. Zha'nelle had decided that she would attempt to attack the soldiers on the top emplacements of the shuttle, but she did not get close. Nowhere near it, in fact.

Instead, an alert pilot saw her approach, swivelling his Samson kunsip to take a sideways snapshot at her with one of his remaining rockets. Äie'reypay jinked sideways slightly, the rocket passing so close to her body that Zha'nelle felt the heat of its exhaust. At the same moment, she drew and loosed an arrow. It flew truly, striking the chopper exactly where she aimed – directly down the throat of the right engine air intake.

Zha'nelle had no time to celebrate. The rocket struck the floating mountain behind her, the concussion of the explosion ripping her from the back of Äie'reypay. Both rider and ikran started to fall, half-stunned by the impact of the blast wave. Zha'nelle screamed, "Äie'reypay!"

The ikran tumbled through the air, and then suddenly snapped out its wings to halt its fall. It looked about, as though it was searching for its missing rider, but any further sight of her ikran was hidden from Zha'nelle by an intervening floating mountain. Äie'reypay was gone, and she was still falling...

Zha'nelle took up the spread-eagle position that had been hammered into her by Sylwanin – not her daughter, but the long dead sister of Ney'tiri – as the best option to take to survive a fall from her ikran. Her eyes scanned the forest below, looking for a tell-tale gap in the canopy and the distinctive flash of green of the apxarìkzuputral, the large leaf falling tree.

There was a gap, right there, right in front of her. Zha'nelle started to steer her body towards her goal and survival, when she realised she still had the grip of her bow held firmly in her left hand, If she hit the first leaf of the apxarìkzuputral the bow would be ripped away from her hand, and there was no way she was going to lose this bow, even though she had no arrows. It had taken her far too long to make to discard now. Quickly, she slung it over her body, snapping back into the freefall position – just in time. She hit the first leaf of the apxarìkzuputral with a bone-jarring shock.

* * *

"Shit!" swore the pilot of Samson Four-Four as the panel in front of him lit up like a Christmas tree. Only a second ago he was rejoicing at blowing another smurf off a banshee – not a direct hit, but sure as hell the fall to the ground would leave it a pile of red and blue jelly on the forest floor. It looked as though his right turbine ate the arrow the smurf had shot just before he nailed the bugger.

There was a shriek of tearing metal as the turbine blades shattered and the engine temperature shot off the scale, followed by a brief dull 'boom' – yep, the engine had caught fire. It was definitely not his lucky day. The pilot cut fuel to the right engine and rammed the throttle for the left through to rubber stops for full emergency power, praying that the unbalanced torque wouldn't strip the gears from the driveshaft.

His prayer for the driveshaft was effective, but misplaced. Instead, pressure in the left turbine dropped suddenly, and he was losing both power and revolutions. It looked though one of the turbine seals had given way under the extra load. When he got back to Hell's Gate he was going to tear his crew-chief a new asshole.

"What the fuck is happening?" yelled one of the door-gunners over the com channel, alarmed at the sudden onset of vibrations.

"Brace, brace, brace," announced the pilot calmly, as he fought to control the rapidly sinking chopper. There was no way he was going to stay in the air. "Dragon Actual, this is Samson Four-Four, losing altitude, crash in thirty seconds."

"Samson Four-Four, Dragon Actual," announced the calm voice of the battlespace coordinator on the Dragon gunship. "Have advised ground forces of your situation and probable location. Good luck. Out."

The pilot had enough air-speed left to make for a gap in the foliage. Using what little engine power he had left, he flared the rotors to kill forward airspeed – there was an unfriendly forest giant right ahead, and he suspected it would win if it came to disputing airspace with a Samson. The chopper dropped like a stone, until the left rotor clipped an aerial root and suddenly the world started to gyrate wildly to the accompaniment of tearing metal. The spinning and tumbling seemed to last forever, until the fall stopped suddenly with a crushing jolt, upside down.

"Is anyone alive?" asked the pilot shakily. Out of habit he started flicking off switches to secure the aircraft. Who knows, it might stop the whole she-bang from brewing up.

"I'm ok," said one of the door-gunners, strapped in to one of the seats. "Bryson isn't looking too good. It looks like the door-gun crushed his chest, and he ain't moving. Or breathing."

"Get your weapons and supplies," ordered the pilot. "We're not too far from the ground-pounders – only about click. We'll make for their position."

"Got it," said the erstwhile door-gunner. He unbuckled his seat-belt and yelled as he fell to the ceiling of the Samson. "Ow!" He shivered slightly, thanking the gods that he didn't land on his exopack and crack the plastic facemask.

He did not observe a long blue arm reach into the cargo area.

* * *

The falling kunsip almost landed directly on top of Zha'nelle – she leapt aside to make sure she was not crushed. Did the pilot have a personal vendetta against her? Was it not enough to blow her off Äie'reypay? She was sore all over thanks to this bastard of a pilot.

Zha'nelle dropped her bow on the ground and drew her knife, the noise hidden by the ticking of hot metal slowly cooling and not-so-distant rumble of explosions and rattle of gunfire. She wrinkled her nose – all she could smell was the stink of leaking fuel.

She took a few steps towards the chopper, reached into the cargo area and grabbed the door-gunner from behind, under his jaw, tilting his head back. With a single slash, she dragged her hunting knife across his throat, feeling the edge grind against the front of his vertebrae. A great fountain of blood splashed out and sprayed over the interior of the cargo area. There was no struggle – Zha'nelle lowered the limp body gently to the ceiling of the upside-down chopper. She peeked inside – the other door-gunner was already dead. That left only the pilot to kill.

* * *

"Unh."

"What was that?" asked the pilot. "I didn't catch what you said." Bracing himself against the cockpit glass as he undid his seat buckles, the pilot carefully managed to assume a roughly vertical position. He had no wish to knock himself out by falling headfirst into the armoured glass. It was damned hard stuff. The pilot grabbed an exo-pack and put it on, relaxing as he heard the welcome hiss of the seal.

That was odd, he thought. The rear window into the cockpit was covered with some dark fluid, obscuring his view. Was it plant material from the fall?

He reached for the cockpit door, which fell open, when a terrifying sight appeared. One of the smurfs appeared at the door, spitting and snarling like a wild animal. It reached in for him, grabbing him by the shirtfront as he screamed and scrabbled for his revolver. He couldn't stop it from dragging him out of the cockpit, and when he managed to draw his revolver, it simply batted the weapon out of his hand.

It was a female, face vividly painted in black and orange, its huge alien eyes filled with hatred.

"Don't kill me," he pleaded. It looked as though it was going to bite his head off.

The smurf answered in heavily accented English, "Tawtute want our world so much, show you belong by breathing our air." With a single economical movement it ripped off his exo-pack.

The pilot started gasping for breath, as carbon dioxide flooded into his lungs and started to saturate his red blood cells. He grabbed at the smurf's wrist, trying to force it to let him go, but to no avail. It was far stronger than he was, and it wasn't struggling for oxygen. His vision narrowed to a tunnel, and all he could hear was the pounding of his heart, as the face of the Na'vi faded to grey and then black.

* * *

When the pilot stopped moving, Zha'nelle wiped her bloody knife on his uniform, and dropped the limp body to the ground. She pricked her ears, determining where the ground battle was. The tawtute had to be kept away from Vitraya Ramunong – and her daughter - at all costs.


	47. Chapter 47

Zha'nelle had not run far when she came across the bullet-riddled bodies of a Na'vi warrior – not an Omaticaya – and his ikran, slumped on the ground yet still linked in tsahyalu, united in death as they had been in life. There were three intact arrows in the quiver attached to the ikran saddle. She took the arrows and murmured, "My need is greater than yours, friend. May your spirit speed these to the heart of our enemies."

A little further on the forest showed the scarring inflicted by the humans – burnt and broken foliage, the huge footprints of AMP suits, and all too soon the corpses of their victims – pa'li, ikran and Na'vi. There were few dead tawtute. It seemed that the attack by the horse clans had been a dismal failure. There was only one positive that she could see - Zha'nelle was behind their skirmish line, approaching their six, in a perfect position to pick off stragglers.

Zha'nelle slowed her headlong rush to a patient stalk, flitting between the shadows like a ghost, before she gave a feral grin.

* * *

The two grunts had been detailed to watch the rear of the line, in case the smurfs tried to roll them up from behind. There wasn't much chance of that – the dumb fucks had mounted a cavalry charge on a skirmish line equipped with automatic weapons. It was so nineteenth century, like Indians charging Gatling guns. The smurfs wouldn't stop running for a month of Sundays.

"I'd kill for a smoke," said one to the other, turning towards his mate. "Fucking exo-packs."

The other chuckled and slapped him on the shoulder. "Those things will kill you, Spicer," he said. "Why don't you try nicotine patches?"

There was no answer except a slight grunt, and the soldier that had last spoken felt an intense pain from his gut. He looked down to see an arrow embedded in his belly, the shaft erupting from below the rib cage of Spicer, connecting them together with a metre of wooden shaft. He started to scream as Spicer's knees buckled, the razor sharp stone arrow head slicing up through his guts, pivoted up by the falling dead man. The wounded soldier tried to relieve the pain by standing on his toes, but then Spicer's body fell to one side, the arrow head twisting and slashing open the abdominal aorta. The relentless action of his heart emptied blood into his abdominal cavity, and he slumped to the ground still connected to his dead mate.

The last thing he knew was an agonising pain as a large blue foot was placed on his chest, and the arrow was brutally yanked out of his gut.

* * *

Two tawtute with a single shot – now that was different, thought Zha'nelle, as she pulled the arrow out of the two corpses. She cursed softly. The fletchings of the arrow had been torn off in the body of the first soldier, and the arrow was useless – without them it would never fly straight and true. Still, she had two more arrows, and there was always the chance of picking up some more.

Her ears pricked. It was difficult to hear anything over the roar of flamethrowers, bursts of gunfire and detonation of grenades. There was a faint trembling of the earth, as though there was an approaching storm. Something was coming - something large. Something large and fast.

The noise of the tawtute weapons stopped as they too felt it, and then Zha'nelle knew what it was – stampede, and it was heading directly towards her. She leapt for a tree, swinging up into the branches. It was marginally safer than being on the ground, but all the teaching songs related there was no safe place to be in the path of a stampede.

From the low branches she could see the skirmish line of tawtute – both infantry and AMP suits. She did not attempt to take aim and slay any of her enemies. Zha'nelle twisted her hands around some hanging vines, and grabbed hold of the central trunk, hanging on for dear life. The thundering of the oncoming herd grew, shaking the forest, and the tawtute opened up fire.

'Angitsa and talioang – hammerheads and sturmbeasts – erupted into view, crushing the undergrowth flat beneath their massive feet. There was a sudden cessation of fire in stunned disbelief as the first 'angitsa smashed an AMP suit flying with one flick of its head, smashing it end over end. The infantry reacted quicker than the soldiers in the AMP suits. They broke and ran, scattering like yerik fleeing before a palulukan on a killing spree.

A talioang rammed into an AMP suit, knocking it backwards until it hit the tree Zha'nelle was sheltering in. The shock caused Zha'nelle to lose her grip on the central trunk sending her swinging into the air hanging desperately on to the vines wrapped around her wrists. Remarkably, the machine remained upright while the talioang tumbled head over heels. It regained its feet, its muscles bunching, and slammed its horn directly into the torso of the AMP suit, and a film of red instantly obscured the canopy glass. The talioang gave its head a flick, and the remains of the machine went flying back over its shoulder.

More massive herd beasts went thundering past, rendering it impossible for Zha'nelle to regain her grip. They were followed by more nantang than Zha'nelle had ever seen before, yelping and barking as they leapt and bounded towards the infantry, eager to pull down the aliens.

Zha'nelle was awed. It was as if Eywa herself had commanded the forest to rise up against the tawtute and crush them. She caught a brief glimpse of Ney'tiri running amongst the nantang, pursuing the enemy, and then she was gone.

The thunder of the stampede had passed, and all was quiet.

Zha'nelle was still swinging from the vines. At the end of one swing she released her hold, and fell to the forest floor, the shock of her landing absorbed by her knees, steadied by one hand. She rose out of her squatting position and gazed in amazement. Broken and smashed machines were scattered randomly on the crushed undergrowth, looking more like discarded toys after a child's temper tantrum than deadly weapons of war. Here and there were patches of red jelly with flecks of grey-white, the signs of some tawtute soldiers that were not fleet or nimble enough to avoid the huge lumbering feet of the 'angitsa and talioang.

Her gorge rose at the grisly scene.

It was as though a switch licked in her brain. Zha'nelle had enough of killing – even the killing of the tawtute that had destroyed Kelutrel, and almost slain her daughter. At that same moment, there was a colossal detonation that shook the forest. Her head swung towards Vitraya Ramunong – had this all been in vain? Zha'nelle gazed anxiously at the pillar of fire rising near the Tree of Souls, when she realised that there was no disruption in the energy of the forest, the only disruption the clouds of screeching riti taking off in response to the explosion. The shuttle carrying the bomb that Zhake'soolly had spoken of must have been destroyed.

Zha'nelle searched the battlefield for injured Na'vi. Many were stunned from the impact of explosions but were otherwise more or less uninjured. Those she told to seek her sister Kalinkey, telling them where to find her, at the camp at the Tree of Souls. The ones that were badly burnt she could do little other than speed them on their way to Eywa's embrace, and spare them an agonising death.

Her ears flicked forward. She could hear a male groaning. Zha'nelle pushed her way through some dense undergrowth to find Tsu'tey sorely wounded, with many bullet wounds to the chest.

"Oel ngati kameie, Zha'nelle," he said, trying to deny his pain. "You were right. I should not have worn yellow."

She quickly made the gesture of greeting, and examined his wounds. She could See that his lungs would soon fill with blood, and his liver was sorely wounded – these were not wounds anyone could survive, not for long. "I am sorry, Tsu'tey," she replied. "There is nothing I can do. Your wounds are too great." She drew her knife to give him the blow of grace.

"No!" he almost shouted. "I would speak with my brother, the Toruk Makto, if he still lives. There are words I must say to him."

Zha'nelle nodded, and called out, summoning those within hearing range. Four or five Na'vi appeared from nowhere, it seemed. She gave orders that Toruk Makto was to be brought here – quickly. The Na'vi nodded, and sprinted away. Zha'nelle tried to prop Tsu'tey into a sitting position, but he gave a muffled scream – the internal damage must be greater than she realised.

Tsu'tey grimaced. He asked her, "Did you claim many enemies?"

"A few," she answered reluctantly. She did not want to boast, not of killing.

He nodded. "I was wrong to call you craven. I am sorry."

Zha'nelle smiled sadly at her unfriend, and gave him her hand. "The words were never spoken."

The answer Tsu'tey gave was not spoken, merely a squeeze of her hand.

Only minutes had passed when both Zhake'soolly and Ney'tiri appeared. Zha'nelle gave way, and was one of the few to hear the last words of Tsu'tey, warrior and olo'eyktan of the Omaticaya.

* * *

Zha'nelle continued to search the battlefield for those that were still living. After much searching, she found Tsawlontu, sitting by the carcass of his ikran. When she greeted him gladly, pleased that he was still alive, Tsawlontu turned his dull eyes towards her. "I am happy you are here," he said quietly, looking anything but happy. "I wish for the blow of grace. I did not have the strength to do it myself, and hoped for a friend to offer me that service. Now you are here, Zha'nelle."

He looked fine to her. In shock, perhaps, but then he had lost his ikran, so that was understandable. "But why?" she asked.

He lifted up his left arm from where it was resting, and she gasped with horror. Tsawlontu's hand was intact, but grey in colour – for very good reason. Above his wrist, there was almost no flesh or muscle attached to his forearm, for a good third of its length, the bare bones clearly visible.

"I cannot live like this," said Tsawlontu. "The flesh of my arm will rot and putrefy for many weeks, and I will die in great agony. I do not wish to inflict such pain on Kalinkey."

Zha'nelle swallowed nervously. "No," she agreed. "You will not put my sister through that pain and loss."

"Good," he replied. "I am ready."

"No," repeated Zha'nelle firmly. "I am not going to give you the blow of grace. I am going to save your life, if I can."

"How?" he asked incuriously.

"I will remove the damaged part of your arm," she said. "It will heal, and you will live."

"No," he stated. "A taronyu and tsamsiyu with only one arm is useless, and cannot be allowed to live."

Red flared in Zha'nelle's eyes. "No!' she shouted, making him flinch. "You will live. Spirit is all that matters, not the body." She saw a stubborn look appear in his eye, the first real look of life she had seen in his soul, and then Zha'nelle used her clinching argument. "Kalinkey requires you. She wishes for another child, and you are the only one who can give one to her."

Tsawlontu hesitated for a moment. "Very well," he said, "If you promise to give me the blow should this not work."

"There is no time to waste," said Zha'nelle. She unpacked the small surgical kit from the pouch she carried into battle, and laid the instruments out on the body of Tsawlontu's ikran, measuring out a small amount of powder into a spoon. "This is the drug that removes feeling," she advised him. "You will need it."

Without complaint, he took the drug onto his tongue and swallowed. Quickly, the light of reason fled from his eyes, and she began to work, flensing back the flesh from his arm until she found healthy undamaged muscle, and then cut back further, leaving flaps of skin and muscle. Zha'nelle used a vicious looking knife with serrated edge to saw through both bones in two diagonal cuts, so the bone would grow together when it healed. She tied the bones together using a thread that would dissolve in the skin, and then quickly use the flaps of skin and muscle to cover the bone, carefully sewing up the wound, until she was left with a neat stump. She strapped the foreshortened limb to his torso to prevent it from being further damaged, and then she was done.

She had given him more than enough drug to remove all feeling for hours. Zha'nelle pulled Tsawlontu up to his feet, and half-walked, half-dragged and half-carried the semi-comatose Na'vi back to the camp of the Omaticaya.

* * *

Kalinkey cried out, "Tsawlontu!" Eagerly, she ran towards the two Na'vi entering the Omaticaya camp.

She knew that Zha'nelle had survived from the news of many of the wounded that had returned to the camp, and Kalinkey was happy that her sister had returned with her mate. Any minor injuries that he may have had Zha'nelle would have treated easily.

"I'm sorry," said Zha'nelle briefly, just before Kalinkey reached them. Kalinkey slowed and stopped, as she saw her mate was missing his hand and half of his forearm. "I had no choice but to remove it," she added grimly.

Kalinkey shut her eyes, as though she was experiencing the pain of her mate. When she opened her eyes, she said simply, "Thank you for returning Tsawlontu to me."

Zha'nelle's mouth twisted into an ironic smile. "I thought you might want the useless layabout back."

Her sister surprised her by replying, "I am sorry that you had to be the one to do this, my sister. It must have cost you greatly."

"It did," she replied. She took a shuddering breath, looked down at her feet and back at her sister, asking, "Is Sylwanin well?"

"She is asleep," said Kalinkey. "But..."

A lump rose in Zha'nelle's throat. She knew what Kalinkey was about to say, and the world started to disappear out from underneath her feet.

"...No-one has seen Mìnkxetse."


	48. Chapter 48

Zha'nelle did not go to Hell's Gate with Zhake and Ney'tiri. They were easily capable of forcing the tawtute to leave, and did not need her.

Those that needed her were still lying where they fell on the battlefield. For three days she worked, bringing in the wounded, or giving them release. Always, she searched for Mìnkxetse, but she was not the only Na'vi searching for her mate, sibling or parent. Scarcely an hour passed when a scream of anguish did not rise to the heavens as the shell of a loved one was found.

One of Ney'tiri's friends – the singer, Ninat – assisted Zha'nelle in her search. She was seeking her brother Txep'ean, another of those who had not returned. Zha'nelle could not tell Ninat that she could still feel his lifethread in her vision, constrained by her gift of prophecy – or rather her curse. It would not show her whether Mìnkxetse lived or died. His thread was too close to her own to see.

It was on the third day that the last living wounded was brought in for healing. Thereafter, efforts were concentrated in identifying and honouring the dead.

* * *

Among the many twisted and broken machines, Zha'nelle found the ruins of a Samson kunsip, streaks of blue and white paint still visible on the burnt metal. A horribly burnt corpse still sat in the cockpit, its hands melted to the controls.

Trudy Chacon had paid the ultimate price for her defence of the Na'vi.

As she carefully extracted the body from the wreckage, she told Ninat of the courage of this young woman, who gave her life for the cause of the Na'vi without any prospect of reward.

"She saved my life in the battle," said Zha'nelle. "Truti Tsakon saved the lives of many Na'vi by her actions, at the cost of her own."

Ninat replied, "Not all of the tawtute are evil, or blind to Eywa." As they dug a grave by the ruins of the kunsip, she added, "I shall talk to those who knew her, and make a song to celebrate her bravery and sacrifice, so that she is remembered by the Omaticaya."

After they lowered the body of Trudy Chacon into the grave, Zha'nelle saw a floating atokirina drift by. She went to catch it with one hand, but it unexpectedly sank, avoiding her grasp, and settled into the grave.

"It seems that Eywa provides for her own," stated Zha'nelle.

Ninat responded, "Yes, she does."

* * *

Two weeks had passed since the battle, and the battlefield had been cleared of all who had fallen, both Na'vi and tawtute. The shuttle carrying the last of the tawtute had taken off yesterday, and the starship had already boosted for Earth return.

The RDA had departed Pandora – hopefully forever.

Tsawlontu's arm was healing well, Zha'nelle thought as she removed the stitches. Despite the rough and ready surgery, there had been no infection of the wound. It seemed she had done a reasonable job with her first amputation.

"I can still feel my fingers," commented Tsawlontu. It seemed that he had adjusted well to the loss of his arm, especially after the greeting he had received from Kalinkey when he regained awareness.

"It is not uncommon for tawtute to express the same feeling after amputation," answered Zha'nelle. Good, that would make rehabilitation easier, she thought. A viable sense of proprioception would be important in Tsawlontu's recovery. She had sent an e-mail to Max Patel asking him if it was possible for the stereolithography plant to manufacture artificial limbs for the Na'vi, along with a scan from her data tablet of Tsawlontu's stump, and had received a positive response back this morning.

Mo'at was watching the healer work, wondering how she could seem so calm when her life mate was missing. Her own grief at the loss of Eytukan was almost crushing, and it was only her duty to the clan that kept her functioning. How Zha'nelle could be so calm in the face of uncertainty she could not understand.

When the last stitches were removed, Tsawlontu looked up from his arm into Zha'nelle's face. "I miss him too, my sister."

Zha'nelle's face froze for a moment, before her expression returned to that of the calm and efficient healer. She made a slight gesture of negation with one hand, before she said, "I have much to do, my brother. There are many others that require my care, so if you would excuse me?"

"Of course," he replied.

The Tsahik followed the healer on her rounds as she examined all those under her care. Her gentleness and empathy had been remarked on by many, particularly those that had seen her mad dive into the turmoil of the aerial battle. Mo'at said nothing, merely watching, until Zha'nelle had treated the last of the wounded, until she returned to the healer's tent.

"Your daughter needs you," said Mo'at. Sylwanin had been asking for her mother these last two weeks, but not once had she been to see her child, leaving her to the care of Kalinkey. "She is asking for you."

"I do not deserve to see her," replied Zha'nelle, her voice almost void of all emotion, her face deliberately turned away from the Tsahik, as she cleaned the tools of her trade.

"Why, then, do you seek to punish her?" asked Mo'at. "Sylwanin has committed no evil."

Zha'nelle finally turned to gaze into Mo'at's eyes. She confessed, "I have."

Now Mo'at was puzzled. Zha'nelle had laboured ceaselessly to help the wounded, and by all accounts had conducted herself with great courage in the battle against the tawtute invaders. "What evil is this?" she asked.

There was a slight hesitation before Zha'nelle answered, "I slew a tawtute pilot, though he begged me for his life." There was several seconds silence before she corrected herself. "No, that is a lie. I did not slay him. I removed his exo-pack, and watched him die, struggling for breath, and I rejoiced at his agony."

Mo'at ordered, "Tell me what happened in the battle - from the beginning."

The healer knelt on the ground, and related all that she had done, her voice expressionless. When she finished, Mo'at asked, 'This tawtute pilot – he had tried to kill you with his machine, and attempted to draw a weapon on you, before he begged for his life."

"Srane," answered Zha'nelle, her eyes downcast.

The Tsahik of the Omaticaya asked a question of the healer. "What is the rule of the challenge in war, where one warrior fights with another? Did he not single you out for combat?"

Zha'nelle knew this very well – it was a central element in the songs of war. She answered, "The life of a coward is forfeit. Mercy is only the right of the courageous and honourable enemy."

"I did not see honour or mercy at the fall of Kelutrel," said Mo'at. "There is no honour in the slaying of children. The tawtute soldiers saw the Na'vi as less than animals. Why should a Na'vi show mercy to those who would never show mercy?"

Zha'nelle could not answer this question.

Mo'at continued, "You did no evil, Zha'nelle. Go to your daughter. Eywa ngahu."

The healer nodded, rose to her feet and left. Mo'at watched her muscular back retreat until she was hidden by a tsyorina'wll plant. It would take time for the guilt of the healer to heal, but eventually it would, just as Zha'nelle's conviction that her dead mate was her fault would also fade. War was a difficult thing, full or moral ambiguities. She just hoped that the Na'vi were done with the tawtute and war.

* * *

Mìnkxetse was starving.

He had been stuck on this floating mountain for two weeks, ever since the day of the battle. He had been pursued relentlessly by a kunsip, and had to overfly his ikran to avoid its deadly fire. The only reason he had escaped was that the kunsip had clipped one of the floating mountains and fell in a ball of flame. He had to land his ikran on the nearest piece of real estate before it fell out of the sky.

Why, oh why had he chosen this particular mountain?

There were no aerial roots connecting this enormous monolith to its neighbours, nor was there any way down to the forest floor. Zha'nelle must be absolutely going insane with worry.

Not only that, there was no game on this rock other than riti – damned stingbats, for Eywa's sake. He had been forced to hunt the damn things just to give his ikran the meat it needed to repair its wing muscles. At least it would be able to fly tomorrow.

And what had he been eating?

Teylu. Uncooked teylu.

He was sick of the sight of the damn grubs, and swore he would never eat another teylu as long as he lived.

It was cold and wet on top of this damn rock. It seemed to rain most of the day, and he had not found a single piece of dry firewood to burn, so he could neither cook the damned teylu, nor could he make a signal fire.

At least there was plenty of water to drink.

Actually, he was both tired and bored. Perhaps he would explore the rest of the mountain – he had only covered less than half of the damned thing. He might find something decent to eat other than teylu.


	49. Chapter 49

"Sa'nu," cried Sylwanin, her childish face filled with joy. She pulled free of Kalinkey and ran towards her mother.

Zha'nelle tried not to weep as her daughter flung her body into her mother's arms. She failed miserably.

Sylwanin asked, "Why are you crying?"

"I am happy and sad," replied Zha'nelle. "I have missed ma'ite greatly, so I am happy to see you again, but sad that I was away so long."

"It is alright, sa'nu," said her daughter. "I understand why you have been away. You have been making the People well again, after the fight with the tawtute. Kalinkey told me."

Zha'nelle turned towards her sister of the tsumuke'awsiteng, and raised an eyebrow in query. The answer she received was a single shake of the head. She wiped her tears away with the back of one hand, and swallowed anxiously. "Sylwanin, ma'ite," she started. "Your father – we don't know where he is. I have looked everywhere."

"You can't have looked everywhere," said Sylwanin, using childlike logic. "If you had looked everywhere, sa'nu, then you would have found sempu. I am sure you will find him, unless he is playing hide and seek. Sempu is very good at hide and seek."

"Ma'ite, he may not be able to come back," said Zha'nelle. "Sempu may have gone to be with Eywa."

Sylwanin said crossly, "Then you should ask Eywa if sempu is with her."

Her daughter's words struck her like a lightning bolt. Out of the mouths of babes, she thought. Here she was, at Vitraya Ramunong, at the veritable Tree of Souls, and she had not sought to ask Eywa if Mìnkxetse had departed this world. She was stupid.

Zha'nelle smiled at her daughter, picking her up and balancing the young child on her hip. "I had not thought of that, ma'ite," she said. "Perhaps we should go to Vitraya Ramunong and ask Eywa if she has sempu."

* * *

In the middle of the floating mountain, Mìnkxetse found a grove of willow trees with a clear space in the middle. The grass was worn down to the earth in places, and there were many footprints, all of the one person – a uniltìranyu. A very small uniltìranyu, not much larger than a child – or at least a uniltìranyu with much smaller feet than Zha'nelle's.

No-one had ever seen a uniltìranyu child, thought Mìnkxetse. Was this where the tawtute made them?

He followed the tracks across the mountain – they were at least a week old, possibly more. He halted with shock as he saw the shining metal buildings of the tawtute, with an ikran perched on one – an ikran he knew.

"Txep'ean!" called out Mìnkxetse. "Are you here?"

The Omaticaya warrior he called came out of one of the buildings, and shouted, "Mìnkxetse, thank Eywa you are here. I need your aid, quickly."

Mìnkxetse ran across the clearing, stumbling over the fresh corpses of two male uniltìranyu. He wrinkled his nose in distaste, but nonetheless followed Txep'ean into the building.

At least this building had been constructed with the Na'vi in mind, and he did not have to duck his head to preserve his brains from being knocked out. Once inside, he saw that Txep'ean was wearing a dressing on his shoulder - a tawtute wound dressing, not one that a Na'vi would use. "You have been wounded," said Mìnkxetse.

"Yes," replied Txep'ean. He pointed to a tawtute woman lying unconscious on a table in the middle of the room. "But that is not why I need your help. We have to take this woman and her dreamwalker body to Vitraya Ramunong. She is dying."

"Why?" asked Mìnkxetse. They had just fought a war against the tawtute and expelled most of them from Pandora. Those few that remained were only those that had assisted the Na'vi against the bulk of the tawtute. Surely the right place to take this woman was the place of the tawtute.

"Na'diakhudoshin saved my life," said Txep'ean. "She is my friend."

Mìnkxetse understood now the desperation of his words. This woman was more than a friend to Txep'ean, even if the Omaticaya did not understand this yet, or was unwilling to admit it to another Na'vi. If anyone understood this, he did – for was he himself not mated to a former dreamwalker?

"My arm does not yet have the strength to bear the weight of her dreamwalker body, and keep her safe from falling," said Txep'ean. "I need you to carry her on your ikran."

Before he could make an answer, the tawtute woman whispered, "Txep'ean, txoa oe..." her voice faded out, but not before Mìnkxetse heard the same voice sound from another place. His head snapped around to see a small uniltìranyu woman lying on the floor, in exactly the same pose as the tawtute. She moved an arm weakly, the movement matched precisely by the tawtute.

"She is in both bodies," whispered Mìnkxetse. He knew now what Txep'ean wanted – for this woman to pass through the eye of Eywa.

"Srane," said Txep'ean. "It is because she is close to death."

"I do not know that I can do this," said Mìnkxetse doubtfully. "I overflew my ikran in the battle and strained his wing muscles. We have been here for two weeks, waiting for the injury to heal. To carry two Na'vi will be too much weight, especially now."

"There is a strong thermal near the cliff here," answered Txep'ean. "Your ikran need not flap his wings at all, just fall off the cliff and into the thermal. Once you top out, you should be able to soar all the way to Vitraya Ramunong without a single flap."

One thing that Mìnkxetse knew was that Txep'ean was one of the better ikran riders of the Omaticaya. If he said that there was a strong thermal here that would lift an ikran into the sky bearing the weight of two riders, then Mìnkxetse could indeed fly this woman on his ikran to Vitraya Ramunong.

Txep'ean gripped Mìnkxetse's arm hard. "There is one other thing, my friend. We must fly in close formation. It causes her great pain if her two bodies are too far apart."

"How..." he started to ask.

"I tried to take her tawtute body alone to Vitraya Ramunong, and then return for her dreamwalker body," said Txep'ean. "If they are apart more than two wingspans, she starts to scream in agony." He paused and shuddered, adding, "It is a terrible sound."

"Very well," said Mìnkxetse gloomily. What Txep'ean was suggesting was flying of the greatest precision, which he sincerely doubted he could do with an injured ikran. "I will fly my ikran here. It will not take long, if we do not fall out of the sky first."

* * *

Zha'nelle was positive what she was about to do was a really bad idea. She stood in the depression of Vitraya Ramunong with her daughter, about to link her queue with the Tree of Souls. She glanced down at her daughter, squeezed her hand reassuringly, and linked with one of the glowing willow fronds.

The last thing she was aware of was a sharp intake of breath, before she plunged down the tunnel of light.

* * *

"Hi, Zha'nelle," said a gravelly voice.

Zha'nelle looked around her, to see a strange vision of a place...a place that she only dimly recalled, from her story-book memories of living as a tawtute. It was the embarkation bar at Cape Canaveral, where she had stopped for a last drink before boarding the shuttle into orbit and entering cryo on board the _ISV White Star_.

"Nice place, huh?" said the voice.

She turned around to see a tawtute – it was the tawtute Westin, the one that she had saved and later buried. He was wearing Marine camo, standing at the bar, and sank a shot of what looked like Jack Daniels.

"Oorah," he said cheerfully. "Would you like one?"

As she walked up to the bar, he slid a shot along the highly polished timber surface, stopping precisely in front of her. To her surprise they were the same height, even though he was tawtute, and she was Na'vi.

"Cheers," he said, raising his shot glass, a challenge in his eyes.

Zha'nelle picked up the other shot glass, looked back at him steadily, and sank the shot. The alcohol, or whatever it was, burnt a fiery path all the way down her gullet.

"Hoo boy," she said, realising that she was speaking unaccented 'Ìnglìsì before asking, "Where the hell are we?"

Westin shrugged, "Within the embrace of Eywa. Where else would we be? After all, I am dead. You buried me yourself."

"Oh," she said disconsolately.

"Have another one," he said, filling both shot glasses from a half-empty bottle of Jack – or was it half-full? Zha'nelle noted that the level of liquid in the bottle did not seem to get any less. Westin laughed when he saw her studying the bottle, commenting, "Not much gets past you."

She didn't answer, merely sinking the liquid in the shot glass again. Zha'nelle suspected she could drink for eternity in this place without getting drunk, or the bottle being emptied. "Why I am here?" she asked. "For that matter, why are you here?"

"A couple of reasons," replied Westin. "Or rather three reasons, not a couple. First of all, I wanted to thank you for saving my sorry ass. I would never have met my life mate if you hadn't."

"Life mate?" asked Zha'nelle.

"Life mate," he confirmed, and belched. "The best damned drinking partner and fuck buddy this clapped out excuse of a Marine ever encountered." Zha'nelle still must have looked puzzled, so Westin added, "Grace Augustine. We might have only had a few months, but they were the best fucking few months of my entire shitty life."

"Is she here?" asked Zha'nelle curiously, looking about the otherwise empty bar.

"Yep," was the laconic answer. "Two weeks ago, but then you knew that already." He grinned again, looking absurdly pleased with himself. "In answer to your next question, no, you can't see her. Not this time." He filled both shot glasses again. If anything, the bottle looked a little fuller than when he started. "I'm afraid you have to make do with me. It takes a great deal of energy to manifest for the living, and Grace has another appointment soon. She sends her regards, though."

"Oh," said Zha'nelle, not really understanding.

"The question you came to ask, I'll leave to a little later," said Westin. "The real reason you're here is to tell you have one more task to complete, before you can return to what could be called a more or less normal life. Eywa wanted you to know this."

"A task?"

"Drink up," he said. "This one is for the road." Westin expertly snapped the shot to the back of his throat, and Zha'nelle followed suit.

"What kind of task?" asked Zha'nelle again, wiping her lips with the back of her hand.

"You'll know it when you see it," replied Westin. "You're not much of a conversationalist, are you?" He grinned at her, his eyes twinkling. "I think it's time you were off."

Zha'nelle sensed her surroundings beginning to slip and slide away from her. She only had time to say one word. "Mìnkxetse?"

The bar had almost entirely faded away when the gravelly yet cheerful voice said, "I wouldn't want to spoil the surprise."

If he wasn't already dead, Zha'nelle probably would have killed the extremely irritating Sergeant Westin. That was her only thought as she plunged back down the tunnel of light.

* * *

Txep'ean was right about the thermal, thought Mìnkxetse. His ikran dropped like a stone when they launched into the air – or rather fell off the floating mountain – carrying the uniltìranyu body. Txep'ean had to struggle to keep up with his precipitous descent. Seconds later when they entered the warm updraught, the two ikran soared upwards, gaining altitude almost as quickly as they had been losing it.

Thank Eywa the uniltìranyu woman was small – she was one of the smallest Na'vi adults he had ever seen, except for one particular and very distracting measurement. Fortunately, that was covered by her tawtute clothing.

At least she wasn't struggling, and making his job keeping her on the neck of the ikran too difficult.

Mìnkxetse glanced across at Txep'ean. The young taronyu and his ikran were doing all the work staying in formation, a magnificent feat of flying. Just keeping his climb rate in a thermal like this one down to the same rate as Mìnkxetse would be difficult, but sticking like glue to his wingtip as well? Not easy, especially when he had the gliding ability of an 'angitsa.

Their rate of ascent was slowing – they must be topping out the thermal. He could see the stone arches above Vitraya Ramunong. If they were careful, and nothing bad happened, they should be able to glide directly there without too much trouble. Landing, though, was going to be a bitch.


	50. Chapter 50

Zha'nelle unlinked her queue from the Tree of Souls, and heard the screeches of two ikran coming in for a landing. She turned and immediately recognised both, her heart leaping with joy – the two ikran were those of Txep'ean and Mìnkxetse. The very second emotion she had was annoyance at the smugness of Westin. How dare he tease her! It seemed the dead had no respect for the living.

The third emotion she had was fear. The ikran were coming in too fast, too close together and sinking too rapidly. What the hell was Mìnkxetse doing? Trying to get himself killed?

* * *

Mìnkxetse grit his teeth together, fighting the impulse to shut his eyes so he didn't have to witness the inevitable smash. This landing was absolute lunacy. All he could think was that it was going to hurt. A lot.

"Now!" shouted Txep'ean.

The two ikran flared their wings, slowing and stalling. Mìnkxetse's ikran flapped her wings three times, killing all forward velocity. There was a thump as the ikran's claws caught on roots on the sides of the depression, and the weight of the uniltìranyu settled into his arms.

Mìnkxetse cracked one eye open to see that his ikran was stationary and safely down on the ground – more or less. It was only a drop of several body lengths to the ground. Over the link of tsahaylu he felt a sense of distinct smugness from his beast, as if it were saying, 'so there'.

"Hurry!" cried Txep'ean.

The two males scrambled down the wall, carrying their respective burdens.

* * *

Zha'nelle ran towards the two riders descending from their ikran at breakneck speed, each carrying a limp body. She slowed , ready to scold them for their recklessness, when she caught sight of the face on the uniltìranyu woman her mate was carrying. Zha'nelle had seen her face once before, in a vision that had looked back at her and called her by name.

Txep'ean said anxiously, "She is dying. If Na'dia is to live, she must pass through the eye of Eywa."

"Sylwanin," ordered Zha'nelle, to her daughter alongside her. "Fetch Mo'at now, and tell her the clan is needed here. There is no time to waste."

"What if she won't come?" asked Sylwanin doubtfully. As young as she was, even she knew that the Tsahik was not at the beck and call of every and any clan member – even her mother.

"Tell her the broken one commands it," replied Zha'nelle. She saw her daughter hesitate, adding, "Quickly, now, my love. Run."

After the child left, running as fast as her legs would carry her, Zha'nelle ordered the two males, "Bring her to the Tree."

* * *

The two males carefully lowered their burdens on to the platform of the Tree of Souls. Zha'nelle had just drawn her hunting knife when Txep'ean grabbed her arm and yelled, "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to remove her clothing," said Zha'nelle reasonably. "I need to examine both her bodies. I will hurt her less if I cut the clothing off rather than removing it normally."

"Oh," said Txep'ean.

It was clear that this woman had captured his heart, thought Zha'nelle. She quickly slit the tawtute clothing from the uniltìranyu body first, and performed a cursory examination. Although the female body was petite for either Na'vi or uniltìranyu, it seemed strong and healthy, having the appearance of a girl in the first throes of womanhood. Indeed, she was very attractive – not as beautiful as Ney'tiri perhaps, but certainly striking in her appearance.

Zha'nelle placed her hands on the uniltìranyu and shut her eyes. The life energy in this body felt strong, but there was only a trace of her spirit, just a connection to her tawtute body. If Zha'nelle was to learn anything she had to look elsewhere.

She switched her attention to the tawtute body before her. As she sliced the clothing off this woman, Zha'nelle gasped with horror. She had never seen scarring anything like this – the entire rear of her body was ridged and distorted with scar tissue, stretched tight over her bones and muscles. It was as though fierce flames had been played over her body, burning the flesh without pity or remorse. This woman must be in incredible pain every waking moment of her existence – and the scars were years old. It was a wonder that she could move at all. No, it was a wonder that she was alive.

Zha'nelle gently touched one of the scarred ridges that wept a clear fluid, and the woman cried out and flinched from her gentle caress. "Txoa oe, hì'i tsumuke," she whispered to the tawtute woman. She glanced at the thick dark hair on her head, the short cut waves held in place by the exo-pack straps. Zha'nelle took hold of the wig and eased it off her head, taking care not to disturb the straps. The scarring extended over much of her head, with one ear totally gone, and not a single natural hair follicle to be seen. Zha'nelle smiled to herself – this dying woman might have been horribly burnt, but she still had some pride, and did not wish others to recoil from her in disgust. She had been lucky that the scarring had avoided her face.

"What is her name?" asked Zha'nelle.

Txep'ean supplied the answer. "Her full name is Na'diakhudoshin, but she likes to be called Na'dia. It means Hope."

"Tirea fra'u, Na'dia," murmured Zha'nelle, laid her hands on undamaged skin and shut her eyes.

This woman did not need to be told that spirit was everything. Zha'nelle plunged into a world of pain and anguish, of death and destruction, but above all loomed an indomitable spirit, wild and savage and passionate, a spirit that would never give up and never relent. She would destroy utterly anything or anyone that stood in her way.

Even now, when her body was dying – when her body should be dead – this woman would not let go of life. Zha'nelle could feel the failing organs within this woman's body, only kept going by sheer force of will.

This woman would never take the easy road.

Zha'nelle Saw this woman, and was afraid – not for herself, but for Sylwanin, and for the Na'vi. And even, strangely enough, the tawtute.

* * *

"You will need to dig a grave," said Zha'nelle to Txep'ean, after she removed her hands from the body of the tawtute woman. He started to object, when she interrupted him by saying, "No matter what happens here this day, at least one body will die, if not both. It is better to be prepared. Mìnkxetse, help him. Go."

They were not gone long, returning with Mo'at and Sylwanin, followed by a trickle of Omaticaya clanspeople.

Mo'at said, "Who is this?" She gestured at the two bodies lying on the platform before the Tree of Souls.

Txep'ean announced, "This is Na'diakhudoshin. I wish for her to pass through the eye of Eywa, and join with the Omaticaya."

"The Omaticaya know both Zhake'soolly and Grace Augustine by their deeds and actions," answered Mo'at. "We do not know this woman, and See no reason to do this thing."

Txep'ean's eyes flared with anger. "You do not See because you do not look,' he growled.

The Tsahik looked curiously at Zha'nelle, who gave way to allow her to place hands on the body of Na'diakhudoshin. Mo'at did not leave her hands there for long, almost snatching them away, as though the twisted flesh of the tawtute woman was burning with the hottest fire. "It is not wise," she said.

Zha'nelle murmured to the Tsahik, "No, it is not wise, Mo'at. There is risk in all things, but you should give this broken woman a Choice. She deserves that much."

Mo'at looked hard at Zha'nelle after she spoke, remembering her words regarding the broken ones. Was this woman part of her prophecy?

Glowering with righteous anger, Txep'ean shouted, "Na'dia Sees more than you all, even the Toruk Makto. Even the Tsahik. She sacrificed her life for another, not her kin, or even her own kind. None here is as worthy."

Mo'at answered kindly, "Txep'ean, her pain is deep and old – far greater than it is fair to ask a living person to bear. I have never seen a soul so alone. It would be kinder to let her slip away into the arms of Eywa."

Txep'ean replied, almost snarling, "No. I will not have it. She must live."

"This is your wish?" questioned Mo'at. "You know what you are asking?"

"Yes," said Txep'ean. "I have Chosen to pay the price. I wish to heal her."

"So be it," said the Tsahik of the Omaticaya.

* * *

Most of the clan had followed the Tsahik to Vitraya Ramunong, so it did not take long to begin the ceremony, and it was done quickly – much more quickly than Zhake'soolly had passed through the eye of Eywa. Zha'nelle suspected that it did not take long, for some of the woman's spirit already resided in her uniltìranyu body.

It was no surprise to Zha'nelle to see the woman rise and weep on passing through the eye of Eywa. The sudden surcease of physical pain would be a shock to any spirit, even one as strong as this woman's. Zha'nelle did not hear the words that were exchanges between Txep'ean and the woman – their voices were pitched too low. She was surprised to see the woman take her former body, and carry it away from this place.

The clan were totally silent as the woman and Txep'ean left Vitraya Ramunong. This was not joyous like the ceremony of the Toruk Makto – it was more like the death of Grace Augustine, as though it was a portent of terrible events to come.

After the clan had departed, drifting back to the encampment, Mo'at asked Zha'nelle, "What have we done?"

"A necessary thing," answered Zha'nelle. "A good thing."

"Did you feel nothing?" hissed Mo'at. "Did you not feel the danger in her spirit?"

"Srane," said Zha'nelle. "I am hopeful, for the Omaticaya gave her a Choice when before she had none. Na'diakhudoshin has never been permitted to Choose before."

"You have Seen this?" demanded Mo'at.

Zha'nelle smiled her crooked half-smile, and shook her head. "I cannot tell you any more."

The Tsahik of the Omaticaya hissed angrily and turned away, leaving Zha'nelle with her mate and her daughter beneath the Tree of Souls.

There was one reason why Zha'nelle was hopeful – not for her Sight of all the different paths the future could take, but for one very specific reason – the reason why Na'diakhudoshin had Chosen to pass through the eye of Eywa.

She had not Chosen hatred, or revenge, or long life, or power over others.

Na'diakhudoshin had Chosen love.


	51. Chapter 51

"Sempu," said Sylwanin. "I am glad Eywa sent you back to us. I missed you."

"As did I," added her mother, a speculative look in her eye.

Mìnkxetse looked cautiously at his mate. It looked like he was in trouble, a great deal of trouble. "Sylwanin," he said, "I think you should go to Tsawlontu and Kalinkey. Your mother and I wish to have words."

"Oh," his daughter said brightly. "Are you going to fight again?" Her parents always seemed very happy the morning after they fought. Sylwanin thought they did it for fun, and she looked forward to when she could find a young male to fight with. However, she had not told either of her parents of this desire, as she suspected it would get her in a great deal of trouble. In any case, she was quite happy to wait a little while longer, until she was bigger.

"Srane," agreed Zha'nelle. "We are going to fight."

Their daughter grinned and scampered off without another word.

As soon as Sylwanin disappeared, Zha'nelle raised an eyebrow and asked, "Well?"

Mìnkxetse knew very well what he was being asked – where the hell had he been for the last two weeks. No matter what he said he was going to be in a great deal of trouble. "I overflew my ikran escaping from a kunsip," he said. "I landed on the nearest floating mountain, and there was no way down."

Much to his surprise, Zha'nelle asked him calmly, "Tell me everything."

She listened quietly as he recounted his story, without a single interruption. Mìnkxetse became more and more worried – it was most unlike his mate. After he finished, he asked, "You're not angry?"

"I was, but not any more," she replied. Then Zha'nelle chuckled lightly, saying, "I think I detect the hand of Eywa in your misfortune, given the events that have just taken place here." She gestured around her, indicating the entirety of the depression of Vitraya Ramunong. "It would be ungracious of me to blame you."

Mìnkxetse's shoulders sagged in relief. He had been worried about Zha'nelle's reaction to his absence for well over a week.

Thus, the short but vicious punch she gave him directly to the solar plexus came as something of a surprise, knocking all the air out of his lungs, and causing him to sink to his knees, below the fronds of the Tree of Souls.

"I thought you said you didn't blame me," he wheezed.

She laughed, "I said I didn't blame you. Not that I wasn't going to punish you."

Slowly he began chuckle and then laugh with her. This was the woman that he had fallen in love with – difficult, cantankerous and unpredictable. He loved every fiery inch of her.

Zha'nelle sprang upon Mìnkxetse, and covered him with kisses, murmuring, "I was sure I had lost you, my love. Please don't leave me again."

"I won't," he promised.

As they joined in tsahaylu beneath the boughs of the Tree of Souls, Zha'nelle's heart filled with love for her mate, for her daughter and her adopted world, and she Saw that Mìnkxetse would keep his promise until the day she departed to the embrace of Eywa.

After they had mated, and lay in each other's arms, Mìnkxetse asked his mate, "Is what you told Mo'at true? That you can no longer See into the future?"

"That isn't what I said," replied Zha'nelle. "I said that I could tell Mo'at no more."

"What?" he asked.

"The gift of prophecy cannot be taken away once Eywa has given it," she answered. Zha'nelle could see well into the future, and on most of the possible paths, the future of the Na'vi was bright. Not that anything was certain, of course.

Mìnkxetse sighed, "I was looking forward to a quiet life."

"My part in setting the path of the Na'vi is done," she told her mate. "There is nothing I can say or do that will have any significant impact on the future of the Na'vi. My life – our life – will be quite ordinary now. I have Seen this." Zha'nelle was glad Eywa had shown her this thing, and that she would not share the fate of Kassandra.

"Irayo Eywa ne fì'u fmawn," murmured Mìnkxetse, and kissed his mate gently. At least, it started out gently, until it evolved into something much better than just a simple kiss.

A long time afterwards, when Mìnkxetse allowed Zha'nelle to speak again, she said, "There is one piece of prophecy I have Seen that you might like to know, my love."

"What might that be?" he asked curiously.

"It's not going to happen for a while though," she said.

Mìnkxetse grimaced in thought for a few seconds. "I think I'll wait. I'd rather not spoil the surprise."

Zha'nelle laughed happily. If her mate wanted to wait, that was fine by her. After all, he would only have to wait nine months. Exactly nine months.

Even now Zha'nelle could feel the tiny life-spark of the single cell within her body that would grow into their son.

THE END

* * *

**Author's Note**

For those who wish to read the full story of Na'diakhudoshin, I suggest you read my stories in the following order:

- New Steps  
- En Pointe  
- Oversway  
- Last of the Uniltìranyu

There is also a short one-shot featuring Zha'nelle, Mìnkxetse and Tsawlontu called 'Harmless' that is set a few months after the close of 'Overload'.

I'd also like to thank my loyal reviewers for their support and encouragement during our mutual discovery of Zha'nelle te Manitowabi Eywa'ite and her story, even though I cruelly inflicted endless cliffhangers upon them. As I have told one or two of them, I am truly evil, and apologise not in the slightest.

Cheers.

broadhands.


End file.
